


Chretien De Troyes lost works

by secace



Category: Arthurian Literature - Fandom, Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Length and Tone will vary, M/M, Snippets, tag as i add shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:01:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 23,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24534241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secace/pseuds/secace
Summary: A collection of shorter fics from discord or tumblr or just sitting in my files, more details on each in the chapter notes
Relationships: Gawain/Lancelot du Lac (Arthurian)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 35





	1. The Lion's Knight

“ I'm leaving,” Owain said, keeping his voice matter of fact, even, “I don’t expect to return for a long time, if ever.” 

He flung open the stable doors, and Gawain followed, not stopping him, but not letting up either. “What are you talking about? I can stop him, if Arthur--”

“I asked my lord leave to go. He hasn't ordered me out.” And he did sound calm, somehow, which was a bittersweet victory in its awful cold.

“Then I'll go with you,” Gawain offered, trailing just behind as Owain marched along the row of stalls, more dogged even than Lion, waiting outside.

“I don't want your company,” Owain said, tugging a little too hard on the strap of the saddle. He’d sort of thought that it would feel better than this, like he'd finally have the upper hand on his cousin. It just felt mean and miserable.

“Owain, what is this about? Did something happen? If you insist on self-inflicted banishment, at least don't go alone.”

“If you don't know, that's part of the problem,” he counted several seconds in his head, trying to stay calm, leading his horse out if the stall. “You coming with me would defeat the whole purpose.”

“Which is?” There was no great effort in Gawain's calm. Always the mature one.

“Getting away from you,” Owain answered, swinging up into the saddle. There was no answer for a long second, and he wondered if he'd finally provoked his cousin's infamous temper. Slow to anger, slower to escape it. If Gawain would scream at him, try to stop him, break character for one goddamn moment--

“I see.” He said, then stepped forward and grabbed the reins, loosely, “Just-- are you alright? Where are you going?”

“My mother, maybe.” He shrugged, and tugged the reins away, without resistance. “Don't follow me.”

Gawain stepped away, leaving the path clear to ride out the wide stable doors and into the night. The sounds of the feast he’d stormed out of drifted in the frozen silence between them. The noble knights and ladies, probably already missing Gawain.

“Why?” He asked, almost a whisper. 

Owain moved his horse forward a few steps, testing. Gawain didn't follow. He needed to leave, before the part of him that knew Gawain wasn't doing it on purpose, that it wasn't anyone's fault, won out.

“I-- I’m sick of it, court, you,” he was too good a person for confrontations. “I don't hate you. I just-- hate being related to you.”

“I'm sorry, then,” Gawain said, his expression still unreadable. “For whatever I did, I really am sorry.”

“You didn't do anything on purpose,” said Owain, who should have left several minutes ago. “I just-- I don't want to be jealous of you, I want to be your friend. But I can’t.” 

Outside, it had started to rain lightly, and the dark shape of Lion could be seen by the door, sheltering under the eave. He thought Gawain might be angry, now, because he had a slightly stricken look, uncharacteristically mute. 

He moved the horse forward as if to leave, finally, and Gawain spoke.

“You're jealous of me?” Tone somewhere between confusion and bitter amusement, which was about where his face had settled, too. Owain could see him, having half turned, back to the door.

“Isn't everyone?”  _ God knows your brothers are,  _ he thought, though something in the reaction unsettled his sanctimonious self-pity. 

Gawain had the decency to look uncomfortable. Even the consummate liar, golden-tongued Gawain, couldn't pretend not to notice. “What would you have to envy? You want to be heir?”

“Oh, God, no.” The rain was coming down heavier now, and he was even more reluctant to start off.

Gawain ran a hand through his hair, which now flowed astray in curls over his face. “You’re just as good as me, we both know it, if no one else does.” 

“They don't,” Owain said pointedly.

“That's all?” He laughed, without any humour. “All you have on me, and the opinions of people you don't even like is what you choose to set yourself against?”

“And what do I have on you?” Owain asked, as serious as the other was darkly jocular.

“You want a list?” Gawain said, still with a look of grim amusement. He did. Gawain crossed arms. “Very well. If it weren't for my magic tricks-- sword, horse, sun-- you'd be better than me. You’re taller, people like for yourself, not your name and your-- anyway,” he took a moment to recenter, “you’re a good person, you have a fucking  _ lion, _ a mother to run to instead of-- instead of from--” he seemed to stumble here, his words almost lost to the wind. “You have no idea how often, growing up, I wished Morgan was my mother, even with everything.” His arms dropped to his sides. He said nothing more, except:

“Fuck.”

“Oh.” Then. “Are you-- actually crying?” Which is rude and not something you should say to people, but he hadn't thought this was something Gawain was physically capable of. 

“I'm pretty drunk, actually,” Gawain admitted-- which wasn't too hard to believe, they had been midway through a feast-- “so that is entirely possible.”

Owain dismounted, and his horse was smart enough to wander back stall-wards. He'd untack her later. 

He walked toward Gawain, who took a quick step back for every one forward, till he was leaning against the wooden wall. Owain stopped two steps away.

Soft fur brushed under his fingers, and he glanced down to see Lion at his side. 

“Going to eat me?” Gawain asked Lion wryly, not looking up to his cousin's face. “Maybe rather too spirited. Ha.” Even he didn't laugh at this joke.

After an indeterminate span listening to the rain lashing outside, Gawain sat down, more a graceless slide down the wall, to settle against it in the dirt and scattered hay. Lion nudged him, and, hesitantly, Owain sat too, as the beast sprawled itself between them. 

“That thing is too smart by half,” Gawain noted. Lion huffed. 

“My apologies, Your Majesty,” Gawain smirked. As if this expression was too heavy to hold up, his face fell again into gloom. “I'm sorry, Owain. I never wanted to make things harder for you. For any of you.”

“You weren't trying to.” Owain allowed, fingers buried idly in Lion's mane. 

“Still.” After a nervous moment, Gawain reached out and tentatively brushed his fingertips against the thin fur on the animal's back. Lion permitted this.

“My brothers aren't speaking with me at the moment,” Gawain told them, unprompted. “There was an-- incident, but I imagine in part they feel the same as you.”

“Incident?” 

Lion flickered his ears at that, perhaps sensing the change in tone.

“It’s over now. Please don’t worry about it.” 

He agreed not to.

“Don’t leave tonight,” Gawain said, a suggestion rather than an order. “Wait till the weather is clear. Let everyone see you ride out, in full armour all shining. They’ll cheer. And when you come back we’ll have a feast.”

“If I come back,” he corrected, which meant agreement.

Gawain waved this off. “Aw, I’m not worried about you, you can handle yourself. You’ll outlive us all.”

“That’s grim,” Owain grimaced, though he was inordinately pleased with Gawain’s confidence in him. “Should we go back? They’ll be missing you.”

“Nah.” Gawain gestured broadly to the stable, “The rain. Besides, all my friends are in here.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm, Lion, and Gringolet,” he said, counting on his fingers for emphasis.

“You’ve just counted four,” Owain pointed out, laughing.

Gawain stared at his fingers, a flushed grin on his face. “So I have.” He stretched like a cat and collapsed over Lion, who merely grumbled. “G’night.”

Owain blinked. “Are you serious?”

“Wake me up when the rain is over,” Gawain mumbled, muffled by thick fur.

“Lion, eat him,” Owain ordered. Lion yawned.

Sighing, Owain settled in to wait for the rain to stop. 

  
  
  



	2. Gawain in the Basilica

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you know how babey gawain hung out with the pope in les enfaunces? that but i dont even use the les enfaunces timeline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one was posted to my tumblr (gringolet)

Someone was in Saint Peters Basilica who should not have been in Saint Peters Basilica. Someone was sitting on the monument over the Tomb Of Saint Peter. Someone was eating an apple and swinging his legs back and forth, perched on the Tomb of Saint Peter, humming tunelessly.

Wary of visitations in unusual forms and only half awake, The Representative of God on Earth, Pontifex Maximus, Pope Vigilius The First did not call in the guards.

The boy was looking directly at him, but said nothing. His clothes were fine but somewhat bedraggled, hair unkempt and eyes bright.

“Are you aware that this is a holy place, into which you are not permitted?”

“et hospitalitatem nolite oblivisci : per hanc enim latuerunt quidam, angelis hospitio receptis.” The child quoted, quirking a little smile and taking a bite of his apple.

Now fairly sure this was not, in fact, an angel, Vigilius persevered, “How did you come to be here?”

“Et dixit Dominus pisci, et evomuit Jonam in aridam,” he explained, clearly pleased with his own cleverness.

The man thought for a moment.

“Are you saying you were on the ship that sunk yesterday, and you washed up of the beach?”

The boy took another bite of his apple and said nothing.

“Are you a Christian, boy?” he asked. It should have been a stupid question, considering the child was reciting the bible, but there was something about his eyes, about the way the sunlight through the clerestory touched him differently. And besides, the ship had come from the pagan North.

“Are you?” he asked, in a singsongy voice.

“Take a wild guess.”

The boy laughed in delight at this comment and sprung to his bare feet, keeping his balance in a way that indicated some early martial training, throwing both arms out under the beam of light that shone down, and tossing the apple core off into the shadows.

“God has graced me with His Love and I am strengthened in its glow, a holy warrior from the heavens, filled with the light of His Grace as I am filled with piety and purity,” the boy announced.

Not as alarmed at this announcement of near apotheosis as he perhaps should have been, Vigilius merely nodded.

“Would you like breakfast?”

Whoever this boy was, he was no mere scamp off the street. And perhaps the monotony of endless recitations and ceremonies was wearing. The boy waited only a moment, weighing the likelihood that this was a trick against the likelihood of food. Throwing caution to the wind, he scrambled down and ran over, stopped a few steps off, and bowed deeply. It was as perfectly courteous and neatly performed as it was, so obviously, without any real intention of respect.

“What is your name?” Vigilius asked, leading him off and gesturing for his personal attendant to be fetched. The boy thought a moment, clever eyes distant.

Finally, he grinned widely. “You can call me… Gawain.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> discord picked 2 random characters and i rolled with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posted to discord like 2 months ago

Agravaine paused for a long moment in front of his brother’s door. With Gawain, it was always good to be cautious, even at ten in the morning, which was why “Go get Gawain and ask him about the tax policy in Northumbria” was a mission he had dearly tried to avoid undertaking. Not that it had mattered, no one ever listened. He knocked again, listened again, and waited for a good two minutes before cautiously opening the door.

It was not unoccupied, and by someone other than Gawain. Blessedly, he was clothed and, upon closer inspection, too young. He was seated miserably on a bench in the entrance, like some nervous petitioner.

“What the fuck are you doing in here?” Agravaine demanded, more harshly than he had intended, and the boy looked up, startled, arms tightening around his knees in anxiety.

“I- I'm so sorry Sir Agravaine, I'm gonna go--”

He immediately felt guilty. “Shit, no, I-- aw fuck, are you alright?”

“Yes!” the boy said, and burst into tears.

“Uh. oh no.” Agravaine dithered a moment. Emotions were not his strong suit. But then again what was.

“Are you… injured?” he was still standing awkwardly by the door, not having it in him to just leave, however much he wanted to. He cursed whatever higher powers there were that there wasn’t anyone else around to deal with this. How did Gawain manage to be literally everywhere all the time except when he was needed?

“No I-- I'm just not-- I'm just not good enough,” he said, through stuttering sobs.

“Oh. Shit.” Agravaine closed the door behind him and surveyed the scene.

“I should just-- I should just leave, I don't know why, why I thought I could-- I don't know  _ anything-- _ !” He explained, having evidently taken the door closing as a sign to continue.

“And Sir Kay hates, hates me because, because Gawain makes him try to teach me when I'm, so useless at everything I--” he cut off, having evidently reached a point where breathing became necessary. 

It was only then that Agravaine recognized the boy as Percival, a strange young man Gawain had purportedly just found in the woods in Wales and dragged back to Camelot. The shock of recognition meant it was several seconds before he could manage a response. 

“Uh. he’s probably not trying to be a dick, it just comes across that way, I think.”

“How do you know?” Percival asked, unconvinced.

“I-- no reason.” 

Hesitantly, Agravaine took a few steps forward to be opposite Percival in the narrow entranceway and leaned heavily against the wall.

“I just came here to tell Sir Gawain I can’t- I can’t be a knight, I'm just too far behind everyone else, and-- I just don't want to be ungrateful,” Percival said, sobs having given way to a hoarse half-whisper.

“Maybe you could just be a knight who isn’t very good. Not everyone can be a great knight. Someone has to be shitty at it, or all the great ones would just be regular assholes in metal clothes,” Agravaine remarked, discovering almost immediately that this was the wrong thing to say, as across the way a head of fluffy dark hair reburied itself in shaking hands.

“Everyone else hates me. I shouldn’t be here.”

“It’s not like they’re here on talent,” Agravaine pointed out, speaking from experience. “Most of them are sons or younger brothers of someone who’s actually decent, or their fathers are lords the king wanted to please. Kay is only hard on you because he thinks you actually have a chance.” 

Percival considered this a moment. He still looked fairly miserable, but at least he wasn’t crying anymore.

“I-- still. They still hate me, and I don't know what to do.”

_ Make it everyone else’s problem, hate them for hating you until they hate you even more. Till they all call you a coward and a villain and the eyes follow you like knives pointed at your back. _

That was what he thought. He said something else.

“Next time, tell me, and I’ll tell Gawain, and he’ll beat up whoever is saying you aren’t good enough. And then they’ll like you.”

“I-- I see,” Percival responded hesitantly. Agravaine plumbed the deepest depths of his understanding of other people and came out with little to show for it.

“Look, Gawain wouldn’t have set you up here if he thought you wouldn’t have a chance. And you beat up the one red knight, didn’t you? That’s pretty good.”

“Beginners luck, Sir Kay says. You’re supposed to learn from when you’re seven, and I'm almost sixteen. It’s too late.”

“You just learn how to fetch things and put armour on some old asshole,” Agravaine recalled, “It’s not very useful, I promise you missed nothing.”

“Is that true?” Percival asked suspiciously. Agravaine nodded gravely.

“But--” Agravaine paused to consider, then barreled on, “You don't have to stay, if you don't want to. If you want to stick it out you can and, and Gawain will back you up and so will I. But if you really want to go home… it’s okay. You're not a coward.” He didn’t quite believe it as he said it. It seemed like the sort of thing he should believe, though.

Percival looked at him, surprised. He had, at the very least, calmed down, and was now studying the floor pensively. They remained there without speaking for a while, Agravaine not knowing how or whether he should leave, Percival unable to.

Then the door opened. There was a brief and not necessarily painful silence.

“Hey,” Gawain said slowly, “You’re welcome to it, but may I ask why you’re in my room?”

“It’s Percival’s room now, he’s the new leader of the Orkneys,” Agravaine said. Percival laughed, so he continued. “I’ve been talking to him for half an hour and he hasn’t recited Roman poetry or told me about his demon horse or his magic belt.”

Gawain grinned, having evidently decided to play along.

“Oh, Gods, betrayal!” he threw up his arms dramatically, “my dear brother and my friend have united treacherously against me! Usurpation!”

He fell theatrically to his knees and put his hands to his heart. “Ista quidem vis est! Tu quoque, fili mi?”

“See what I said about the Latin,” Agravaine remarked in aside to Percival, who was laughing too hard to respond.

“Really though, kid,” Gawain said from the floor, “are you alright? You didn’t come here because you needed something?”

Percival thought for a long second. 

“I-- I was going to ask you something but I changed my mind. I'm sorry for the trouble.”

“You sure?”

“Mhm,” Percival nodded. 

“Alright then,” Gawain sat up. “You two want to help me steal from the kitchen?”

They did.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a prequel and sequel to a sequel to historical au of a modern au of a pseudohistory-- in other words, this is a prequel to the carmina figurata fic rey gawain-in-green and i wrote

“In a tournament, is it better to be strongest or most skilled?” Asked Bedivere, reading from the notecards of conversation prompts Arthur made him carry around. 

Arthur considered this for a moment. “Strongest when you’re young and most skilled when you’re old.”

“Efficiency is the thing, and my uncle models it well, to perform one’s greatest feats at the first and do less and less as time goes on,” Gawain said spitefully.

“The sad surfeit of a young prodigy is to be an old fool,” Guinevere noted with a half-smile twisting her perfectly painted red lips. 

Arthur looked between them with the hopeless feeling of having fallen behind somewhere along the path of this conversation, while the other two surged ahead. “Er-- yes, certainly. Who do you think will win?”

Gawain stared dispassionately at the tourney grounds, of which they had a clear view from the perspective of the royal box. “No one wins a tournament, except whoever we bought all these streamers from.”

Guinevere leaned over and pinched his cheek. “Buck up, whore.”

Before Gawain could respond to this affront, Arthur, nervously seated between them, clapped his hands together. “Alright! That’s an interesting answer. Bedivere, who do you think will win?”

Bedivere, the only one of the four forced to stand and already resentful of it, sighed. “I don't know, Your Majesty. It’s a real B-tier affair. Tristan is off in the woods, Lamorak is injured, Gawain is sulking and La--” He stopped at Arthurs frantic motions. “I think it’ll be Drian.”

“It had better not be,” Gawain said darkly. He was, as already evident, in a black mood that morning.

He’d requested leave to go look for Lancelot and, in the first instance of such, Arthur had put his foot down and denied it. The man had only been gone for a week, and there was important political business at Camelot that needed tending to, which had never stood in the way before, and wouldn’t have now, but for the fact that Guinevere had backed him up. She had weighed the relatively low chance that Lancelot was bleeding out somewhere against the need to, occasionally, remind Gawan that while he may have been the second most powerful person in the country, she was the first.

Guinevere snickered. “What, you’re rooting for Bleoberis?” 

“I'm rooting for a sudden and unplanned thunderstorm.”

Arthur signalled to start. 

There were scores of knights on all sides, none of them particularly highly regarded. Griflet rode out first against Gracian and smote him down passingly well. Sirs Placidas and Ladinas were unhorsed, by Calogrenant, who was in turn embarrassed by Galeschin. 

Up in the stands, the mood was decidedly gloomy, cold silence broken by stilted conversation and the aeolian snapping and billowing of the various pennants, streamers and bunting.

“Don’t look glum, nephew,” Guinevere said, ruffling his hair. She was most materteral when she felt he was being childish, despite or perhaps because they were the same age. “Someone might get seriously injured, it’s early yet.”

“Someone just did,” Bedivere remarked, and they all turned back to the proceedings with renewed interest.

Galeschin was lying on his back in the dirt, unhorsed by a knight with black arms. After a few tense moments, he struggled to a seating position, calling out that he was yielding. Two squires ran out onto the field and helped him off, another leading his horse. 

“I wonder who that is?” Arthur asked, leaning forward for a closer look that revealed nothing. 

Guinevere rolled her eyes. “It’s fairly obvious. Le Chevalier Mal Déguisé.”

“Ah,” Said Arthur, who didn’t know what that meant. “Of course.”

“Wait, is it? How do you know?” Bedivere questioned the queen quietly, as on the field Sir Aces of Beaumont rode out against the challenger. Guinevere smirked and pointed at Gawain.

“I see.”

Gawain inevitably recognized Lancelot in any disguise, at any distance, and Guinevere could read him well enough by now to know that. Not that he wasn’t, at this moment, fairly obvious about it, the way his whole demeanour changed like the clouds above his head had parted, and the sun was streaming down, a blessing from the Lord.

Aces was unceremoniously thrown to the ground, drew his blade and held up briefly against the challenger, before being forced to concede. Following him were Sir Sangremore, Hebes, Segwarides, Bleoberis, Dodinas and Lionel. All were defeated with no serious injuries, but there was enough blood that everyone was duly entertained.

“Sit down,” Guinevere chided, as Sir Drian De Galis rode out below, tugging Gawain back into his seat.

“Well, that’s your pick Bedivere. Still confident?” Arthur chaffed, as the aforementioned unfortunate refilled his lord’s cup.

Gawain grinned. “He’s fucking dead.”

This prospect certainly didn’t upset anyone too deeply, Gawain in the least. Drian was generally and deservedly disliked for such things as his behaviour, personality, actions, demeanour, and weird ears, which was perhaps not fair but more a product of the earlier items then the fact that had engendered them. 

Additionally, there had been an incident on the bridge involving Drian and the younger Orkneys which they were all rather shaky on but had solidified Gawain’s dislike into vehement bloodlust, which admittedly wasn’t hard to do. Whether the blood feud was part of this was unclear and didn’t really matter, as Gawain picked up feuds like a child picking flowers in a meadow.

The Challenger finally remembered there was an audience, looking out onto the wooden stands as the son of Pellinore sallied forth. He entered this battle with an uncharacteristic flourish, let his opponent come to him almost playfully.

“He’s showing off,” Guinevere said. Gawain didn’t say anything, in itself a miracle.

Arthur was oblivious to this sudden breviloquence, delighted by the feats of arms displayed on the field. “You think he’ll win, eh, Gawain?”

“ _ Oh, _ yes. That is, ah, I do believe the challenger will be victorious.” Gawain corrected his tone midway through. 

“Excité,” Guinevere murmured, not letting the moment pass.

“I would never,” Gawain equivocated, then fell silent as the pair clashed together below. Drian was unhorsed, the blow so forceful the delivering lance shattered, and his shield with it, the point splitting it in two and driving into his chest. Quickly, Drian leapt to his feet, apparently hale enough to continue, and his opponent dismounted and drew his blade. 

He was alternatingly savage and jocund, hits that tore through armour and flesh, falling into light footwork and dancing malingering then back to brutal, sudden force. Drian delivered one decent blow to the right arm, and the challenger lost his shield, a glancing blow to the cheek where another hit had landed earlier, but the black armoured knight wasn’t stunned long enough, launching into a series of wickedly fast blows to the chest and legs. 

All were deflected by sword or shield, but that was the point. That when, with preternatural speed, the challenger pivoted, threw all his strength to flick the blade up at Drain's head, the knight of Listenesse lacked the quickness in his arms to raise shield or sword to defend himself. There was an awful moment of frozen realization, which was to the crown half a second and to Drian half a lifetime, before his head was split in two.

It was almost comic, the way his legs supported his weight a moment, below a trumpeting stump like a crimson fountain, then slowly fell. Too slow in life, too slow in death.

Bedivere frowned. “Ah, Christ.”

“Christ,” Gawain repeated, with a very different expression. Guinevere had her head in her hands.

“That’s probably bad. We probably shouldn’t cheer, right?” Arthur wondered.

“No, Arthur,” Guinevere confirmed, “we should not cheer the death of the prince of one of the most politically valuable kingdoms under your rule, especially after-- oh God, Gawain, where are you going?”

“Church! Chapel! Religion! I’ve found religion,” Gawain exclaimed, and hurried out without another word.

Arthur stared after him, bemused. “What’s up with him?”

“Zest for life,” Guinevere smirked. “And there goes our champion, though he may have one more knight to overthrow.”

“Oh?”

Whether Chapels were good places to pray, Gawain had no idea. But it was dark and private and the first building someone riding out of the tourney would see. He loitered visibly by the entrance and tried not to think about Events that made him feel Ways that he was far too collected and experienced to be struck by. People feeling Ways about him was how it usually and should have went, and then he'd usually be generous enough to humour them.

No, he was charitably loitering out of the goodness of his heart, and not feeling Ways about anything, for god sake, he wasn't a teenager, a virgin or a Christian, and he was the absolute autocrat in the country of himself.

The black armed challenger, bloody, still helmeted, rode up to the chapel. A violent coup was underway.

“Sir Gawain?” His voice was soft, steady, currently an instrument of revolution.

“ _ Mm _ \-- me, I mean, that would be me,” Gawain pivoted, cleverly he thought. “I thought I would congratulate you, Sir, on your-- oh, hang it--!” 

He dropped the coy pretension and rushed over to the knight, who was dismounting with equal urgency, and struggling with his helmet. The device was thrown to the ground, and before it completed the fall Gawain had embraced it’s owner and kissed him, overthrown.

“You saw--?” Lancelot started to inquire, removing his gauntlets and letting them fall onto the grass on the roadside. 

“Yeah,” Gawain managed, whatever presence of mind he still had dedicated to removing armour-- gorget and pauldrons came off next, fairly easy, even without really looking, ad hoc squiredom secondary to the very important business of kissing him.

“Are you-- ah!-- you were pleased?” Lancelot asked haltingly, tugging clumsily at a buckle on his arm in an unhelpful attempt to expedite the armour removal process. 

Gawain brushed him off, undoing it himself and letting the left vambrace fall, pressing a kiss to Lancelot’s now exposed neck to allay this reproof. “Pleased, yes--” kissed him again, “Yes. I'll show you?” He began with the right, realized he had rather prioritize, cuisses and faulds far more promising, and redirected. 

“In the chapel?” There was a brief moment of good Christian hesitation.

“Right here by the side of the road is fine by me, but for your modesty's sake I thought-- good! You agree!”

Cuisses and faulds were discarded, and with some mild profanity and extended contention with the nine points of securement on Lancelot’s breastplate, spitefully kicked to the side, Gawain judged his job sufficiently complete.

“I shouldn't-- I killed someone and feel-- is it wrong?” Lancelot said on the darkened archway of the chapel. 

“Why?” Gawain responded sensibly, nevertheless pausing, and moving back a handwidth with some reluctance. It was sort of odd, he thought, that separation affected the same discomposure as did closeness, with none of the promise of alteration to the state.

Lancelot thought about it for a second and couldn't come up with anything.

“I should have been more careful taking off your armour,” Gawain said thoughtlessly, “I've smeared blood all over both of us.”

“Hng,” said Lancelot. 

“You want to stop?”

“No! Just thought-- something to discuss. Philosophy. Ha.” He had a sort of distant expression.

Gawain bit his lip. “Well, in that case, probably you'd be more in a state for philosophy unburdened by distractions, i.e. following rather than, ah, preceding…” 

“Sensible,” Lancelot agreed quickly, closed the distance again, pushing both over the threshold into the dark chapel.

After a moment, Gawain broke the kiss, unable to resist the siren song of being annoying. “Any other last minute Catholic guilt to discuss? I'm happy to--”

“Gawain,” Lancelot wore an expression of incredulity. “Please stop talking.”

“Make me!”

He did.

If some good unfortunate God-fearing person had happened to come to pray, and had made their way through the field of incidental caltrops, green spotted with black metal like a leopard, they would certainly have been alarmed at the profane scene unfolding on consecrated ground.

If such a person had in fact born witness, it went unnoticed.

“Done,” Gawain announced proudly, capping a pink highlighter. He was laying on his stomach in bed with a book in one hand, additional highlighters tucked behind his ears and scattered over the blankets with variously coloured post-it notes and pens. 

“With what?” Lancelot asked, splayed supine next to him, half asleep.

“The penitential. I've read through the whole thing and made colour coded notes. The green is you.”

Lancelot considered this a moment, suddenly awake. “Oh that’s-- sweet? Or wierd?”

“Green’s my favorite colour. It's a compliment.” Gawain handed him the book, which was so thick with post-its that it was a full radian from cover to cover. 

“So the green is all the parts about me? What are the other colours?” Lancelot inquired, sitting up. Now that the public humiliation was over, (and that part maybe should be in the book too, he reflected guiltily) curiosity waxed.

Gawain shook his head. “No, I only put post-it notes for the parts about me. See--” He reached over and flipped to a green marker-- “this one's for when you killed Drian.”

Lancelot frowned. “Should I apologize for that? Lamorak seemed mad.”

“Killing someone's brothers does generally make them a tad miffed,” Gawain said mildly. “If anything, you should apologize to God.”

Lancelot closed the book and set it aside. “How’s that go?”

“Oh, well...” Gawain grinned, suddenly interesting in the proceedings. “We can practice, I'll be God. You have to be on your knees.”

“It's always either theology or philosophy with you,” he said, laughing. “Very well!”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dinadan does some crime. luned does a con.

They heard the water before they saw it, and Luned had to stop herself from pushing her horse to reach it faster. It was still spring, or it should have been. The weather disagreed. But at least her clothes weren't metal on top of leather on top of thickly layered cloth. 

“We should stop,” Owain suggested, “for the horses, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” she agreed. 

An interminable few minutes later, they reached the bank of what could only be generously described as a river when, as now, it was swollen with late snowmelt coming down from the hills. Lion, padding alongside them, approached the water fearlessly and slipped in.

“I thought cats hate water,” Luned wondered aloud, dismounted and leaving her mare to graze on the soft grass, dotted with blooms of white and yellow.

Owain shrugged, taking more care with his own horse, loaded down with the costly equipment of knighthood. “Lion’s not a cat.”

“How is a lion not a cat? They are, in all observable ways, big cats,” she argued, and, seeing the road empty in all directions, slipped off her shoes and hosiery and tied her skirts at her waist to wade in up to her knees. The water was shockingly, but not unpleasantly cold. 

He sat on the bank, splashing water on his face and lying back in the grass, hand over his eyes to block out the sun. A warm breeze drifted through, rustling the yarrow, daffodils and buttercups like a crowd of dancing ladies, wide skirts billowing. 

After a spell, the water grew too chill, and Luned joined him on the grass, Lion padding over to collapse in front of them, a pile of fur and claws and teeth, all soggy. They sat in companionable silence, listening to birdsong and the rivers burbling. It was hard to be on guard on a day like that, though they weren't on friendly lands, thus the full armour.

Which was why they were taken by surprise, to be no longer alone. 

Lion was the first to notice, freezing suddenly and turning to the road, ears pricked. He didn't notice fast enough, and Owain found the point of a sword at his throat.

“How awkward for both of us. Should I leave my sword between you and go?” A voice inquired, mirthful. “Don't answer, this is a one man bit.”

Lion growled, not moving, seeing the blade. Of the three, he was the only one with a view of their visitor.

“But I see that would be bad for my health. We are at an impasse, and yes, my Lady, I do see that, so you can stop reaching for whatever you're reaching for.”

“What do you want?” Luned asked, despite his insistence on soliloquy. 

“Would you believe,” he answered lowly, “That I want to help you?”

“No.”

A pause. “Well, I appreciate your honesty. Let me offer a suggestion-- the question you should have asked is  _ who do you work for,  _ which would have told you quite all you need to know. Alas, you only get one question.”

“Do I get a question?” Owain said, careful not to move at all.

“Sure! I'm a generous man,” The blade didn't raise an inch.

“Who do you work for?”

The man laughed appreciatively. “There you are, you got it eventually! Good teamwork. I'm sworn to King Arthur, my sword at the moment belongs to King Mark, and I work mostly for myself and my friends. Occasionally for justice and truth, but that's a lord that pays nothing and rewards less.”

Owain blinked. “That answered very little.”

But Luned was staring with concentration out onto the water. “You're the man who follows Sir Tristan around. The son of Brunor?”

“My Lady,” the voice said flatly, “That was very hurtful. And correct. Sir Dinadan, at your service. Your man here is Owain of the unfortunate cousins, I know from his face. You, I don't know.

“I think there are more important concerns than introductions,” Luned suggested, not forgetting the stakes for an instant.

“Oh I agree, this scene grows stale. I’ll exposit-- my former and now current employer King Mark of Cornwall is after a hostage to exchange with your uncle, suspecting him to know where his nephew is. An avuncular affair from several angles. He and several of his men are less than a crossbow range off, watching us like attentive nursemaids. I may convince you to go, in which case you and your lady will be hostages, and your angry friend killed and skinned. You might run, and be shot to ribbons. Either way, I come out unharmed but feeling like an ass, and still kind of also a hostage. Any suggestions?”

“No,” Owain said, as honest as he was glum.

“Yes,” Luned said. They listened.

* * *

“This is one of the Orkney princes?” King Mark demanded.

“King Arthur is my uncle,” Owain said, trying not to take it personally.

Mark shrugged, and turned to Dinadan. “Who was riding the mare?”

“Ah, now that is a curious thing,” Dinadan began, with a faraway voice like he was about to launch into a ballad. “He told me the story while I was capturing him. It started three years ago…”

“Get to the point. Or get the point of a crossbow.”

Dinadan huffed. “Fine. My talents are wasted. He has a lady who turns into a lion, that’s controlled by whoever can beat her in a staring contest.”

King Mark had only two real talents, and they were being a dick, and winning staring contests. He thought about it for only a second, before he was ordering Owain to summon the lion. Owain summoned Lion, and Dinadan secured him. Or rather did not secure him.

Mark set himself up across from the lion, but before they could begin, Owain fell to his knees, armour clanking and squeaking in protest, and Dinadan quickly propped the man up with his shield. Owain muttered something about the heat, which was in fact becoming unpleasant, and Mark turned back to the matter at hand.

Lion gave him a run for his money, holding his complete attention for several minutes. Long enough time, theoretically, for several surreptitious hand offs, and for Dinadan to slip behind the guards to their horses.

Finally, as Mark’s eyes were growing red, Lion blinked. 

Out of view.

A cry went up from Mark, then came a loud bang of a rock being thrown against something metal behind them, at which the men turned and fired wildly. Owain leapt from his apparent stupor and onto his horse, throwing Luned- who, after removing the ring, had hidden behind his shield-- in front of him. They bolted down the road without a look back, Dinadan following just after. 

Since they left the theater with such impolite haste, they didn't hear the cries of chagrin, when they realized every other horse had been set loose, and spooked at the noise, or the additional cries of chagrin when it was noticed that all the gold they carried was gone too. 

They only stopped when the sun went down, and it was time to fight over who had the job of prying Luned’s invisibility ring off of Lion's toe.

  
  
  



	6. Queen of Cups

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tristan opened the top of the stave with a knife. “Where do you keep the glasses, Isolde, my love?”  
>  “You say that too lightly,” Dinadan warned, still with one arm pinned painfully to Tristan, who brushed him off.   
>  “Come on, you coward bard, drink with us! We’ll play a song together for the lady.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a quick check in with cornwall gang hows it going cornwall gang. oh its going bad.

Isolde leaned back in her chair. It was a fine chair, inlaid with silver decorations in rich, imported wood. Her husband had bought it to decorate her private bower. 

“Don’t look at me like that, Dinadan. I had to ensure her loyalty somehow,” her voice was as rich and dark as the wood, as the gold threads embroidering her royal blue dress. “She was never in real danger.”

“I would never look at you in censure, my dear Isolde,” he said, unconsciously moving his hands on the table as if to play an instrument no one could see. “You know that?”

“Of course.”

“Then why do you lie to me?”

She laughed, a sound like burbling black water. “Do you feel cheated, oh great keeper of royal secrets? Running out of material for condemnatory ballads?”

“The day I run out of material for condemnatory ballads is the day the monarchy falls. Did you intend to kill your maid?”

She shrugged. “Yes. But happily for all, I didn’t have to. Wicked enough for a song?”

“It is wicked, but I can’t sing about it.” He listened a moment, and rose, crossing the room to the door. “There’s Tristan. Only one man has the cocksure confidence to stomp around like that on the stairway of his liege lords wife.”

Surely enough, the door opened to Tristan on the other side, who brushed past, grabbing Dinadans arm and dragging him to the table, where he set down the small stave under his arm.

“You’ll never guess what I stole from Mark’s wine cellar,” he announced smugly. “Come on, let’s celebrate. Dinadan’s got sick of the Frenchman and returned to the loving bosom of Cornwall.”

“You adore the Frenchman, Tristan,” Dinadan said lightly. “What is this swill you’ve poached?”

Tristan opened the top of the stave with a knife. “Where do you keep the glasses, Isolde, my love?”

“You say that too lightly,” Dinadan warned, still with one arm pinned painfully to Tristan, who brushed him off. 

“Come on, you coward bard, drink with us! We’ll play a song together for the lady.”

Isolde fetched three cups, silver inset with carbuncles. 

“I don’t know if it’s wise to drink wine with this pair,” Dinadan joked darkly, “I don’t know what a love potion would do to me and I don’t want to find out. Besides, your entanglement is already a warren of thorns and knots, and I shouldn’t want to go prancing through it.”

Isolde poured him a glass. “You’re too solemn for a fool. Tristan will make old Mark a cuckold as easily as stealing his wine, from now to the end of time.”

There was a crashing sound from behind them in the doorway. Dinadan allowed himself a moment to curse his own stupidity, Tristan’s stupidity, and every action any of them had ever taken to lead to this moment, then he turned around. Tristan, who had not taken this moment, was ahead of him. The man was likely an underling in some respect to the buttery, a working man whose only crime was curiosity and clumsiness. 

His frightened stumbling was too slow, so far from fast enough to escape a trained warrior, a strong man with no hesitation who’d always had enough to eat. It was like a dog and hen. Tristan grabbed him and brought him low on the first step, with a sick crack as the man hit the stone at a bad angle. 

Like a hunter with a trussed up deer, Tristan hauled the man onto his shoulders, checked there was no blood on the stairs, and returned to the room, closing the door behind him this time. Ever the pragmatist, Isolde had moved the wine to a side table, clearing room for the unfortunate to be set down.

“He’s breathing,” Dinadan said.

Tristan picked up one glass and took a generous swig, wiping his hand across his mouth. “Sometimes, when a man gets a knock on the head like that, he forgets whatever came before it.”

“Sometimes he doesn’t,” Isolde said mildly, and drew a thin dagger, silver handle with carbuncle insets, across the man’s throat. 


	7. The Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, the family of the lord Pellinore is sworn to chase it. It’s a curse,” Palamedes said, as if that explained it.  
> “Then why isn’t that bastard Lamorak running over these hills?” Dinadan asked.  
> “It’s a complicated matter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> them :3

“Let me tell you my plan,” Palamedes said, gesturing between rope, sword and rocks.

Dinadan sat back on the rock he was perched on, tuning his lute. “I wouldn’t dream of stopping you.”

“Thank you. So, she’s been moving steadily south for the past two days. She doesn’t fear wolves but she fears men, and we’re close enough to civilization that she’ll find a hidey-hole to rest. The longest I’ve seen her go without rest is three days, so somewhere in this area, she’ll need a place to hide.” Palamedes turned to the shallow rock cave behind them, “and I’m going to make sure it’s this place, using hounds and quick riding to herd her this way.”

“Then the rope comes in, I presume?” Dinadan plucked a string experimentally.

“Yes! She trips the rope, and I, hiding in the bushes downwind, feel the tug. Then I approach quickly from the front, blocking her in, catching the Questing Beast. What do you think?”

Dinadan played a single damning chord.

It’s not going to work is it?” Palamedes said, with a slump.

“It might. I wouldn’t bet on it.”

Palamedes sat on a rock opposite, abandoning the whole plan. He put his head in his hands and sighed, tiredly.

“Why are you chasing that thing, anyway? Last time I met you, you were following around something far prettier. And more dangerous.” Dinadan played the first few bars of a cheery folk song, found it saccharine and commenced a dirge.

“Well, the family of the lord Pellinore is sworn to chase it. It’s a curse,” Palamedes said, as if that explained it.

“Then why isn’t that bastard Lamorak running over these hills?”

“It’s a complicated matter.”

“Well, don’t cry next to a well about it,” Dinadan said lightly, abandoning the dirge and returning to a tune of medium cheer. “You are a very serious man, Palamedes, it’ll be the death of you. I run laughing and sardonic through the world, and will live in it forever. The Gods like a laugh.”

Palamedes took his head out of his hands, to look at Dinadan fixedly. “Sometimes I think you say things just to sound grand, without caring about what it means.”

“Well damn,” Dinadan laughed, “Don’t tell anyone.”

“Sworn to secrecy,” he said, with a small smile. For him, this was practically raucous laughter. Dinadan liked to test his jokes on Palamedes. If he laughed, anyone would.

“I’ve written a song. Would you like to hear?”

Another wry smile. “Seditious, no doubt. Who’s this one about?”

He began to play, plucking out a simple tune. “You, and your monster. It’s a metaphor. All the good songs are.”

“Me? About what?”

“Wanting things you won’t ever have.”

Palamedes looked down at his hands. “You love to laugh at me, Dinadan.”

“On the contrary,” Dinadan said, “I would never laugh at you, my friend.” 

Then he began to sing.

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Priamus had been a fake priest for about a week now, and he personally thought he was really good at it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is part of a bigger 1800s crime au that i. might write eventually. but it works on standalone. idk man this is. pretty dumb just take it

Priamus had been a fake priest for about a week now, and he personally thought he was really good at it. He knew the bible pretty well-- in a different incident in his career as a criminal, he’d been holed up somewhere with only the holy writ for company, and boredom bred theological curiosity. And he was charming, which was a large part of it. Twice as many people had come to church this Sunday then they had last Sunday, so if that meant anything it meant he was doing very well.

He was there as part of an elaborate plot to steal a holy and very expensive relic, complete with its gold and jewel-studded reliquary, but that isn’t relevant. What was relevant was the confessions. 

“Say ten Hail Marys,” Priamus said, bored. “Next?”

The door opened, another penitent entered, and it closed.

“Bless me, father, for I have sinned,” the voice said. Young, with a slight but untraceable accent. “It has been a good decade since my last confession.”

“Oh, gosh,” said Priamus. Less a comment on this sin than on the other ones promised by the smoothly libidinous tenor. “May God the Father of all mercies help you make a good-- a good Confession.”

“I hope so. At any rate, it’ll be a lengthy one.”

The outline revealed no identifying features, not that Priamus was looking. “You’d better get started then.”

A soft laugh. Good lord. “I'm afraid I’ve committed every single cardinal sin in all the most exciting ways. Except for Envy, so that’s something. But I have acted in wrath, done violence against my fellow man, gloried in bloodshed and destruction and been quite good at it. I’ve stolen and tricked my way to wealth and spent it all on earthly pleasure. As for Pride, I will admit to being damnably cocky.”

“Fuck,” Priamus said. The voice was doing things to him and he was rather forgetting himself. 

“That too, yes, I was just getting to that. In Lust, I am made the slave of the devil. I have desired and been desired in many exciting and unorthodox positions. I have laid with maidens and with wives, with and without the knowledge of their husbands. I have lain with their husbands, too.” He paused. If he thought Priamus was going to say anything about this he was gravely mistaken. “I have even thought desirously of a man of the cloth.”

“I-- have you then?” Priamus pressed his luck. “Was this recent?”

“Incredibly recent.”

“Would you like to compound that sin? I’ll write you an indulgence,” Priamus offered. This was insane, he hadn’t even  _ seen  _ this man.

“I would love to. I’ll see you tonight. Oh-- I am sorry for these and all the sins of my past life.”

The rectory was quiet at night. The priest he’d quietly killed and replaced didn’t keep any servants, and he discouraged visitors. The voice belonged to a Gawain, who was all it had promised and more. 

The rectory had formerly been quiet at night. 

Moonlight was filtering through the narrow window in his private chamber, more early morning than night. 

“Oh boo, are you tapping out already?” Gawain stretched and reached for his pants, discarded somewhere at the foot of the bed.

“Already?” he protested. “Oh, fuck you.”

“Well, sure, but don’t hurt yourself,” Gawain smirked, and let himself be pulled back into a kiss. Maybe if the other hand wasn’t drifting up his thigh, Priamus would have noticed that Gawain had laced up his pants and was reaching for a shirt.

As it was, the man was half-dressed by the time he broke the kiss and rose, abruptly and, Priamus thought, rather unfairly.

“I fully believe in your abilities,  _ father  _ Priamus,” Gawain said, locating his belt. “But alas-- Father of mercy, like the prodigal son I return to you and say: I have sinned against you--” he pulled on his boots. “I’ve already distracted you quite long enough. Sorry about your holy relic and its nice gold box.”

Priamus was silent for a long, shocked moment. Then, “Ah, Christ. Take me with you?”

Already at the door, Gawain turned and surveyed him. “Sure. Might want to put pants on, though.”

And that was how Priamus fell to a life of crime, again.


	9. The Lake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was much like the land they had left-- there was a gentle breeze, pleasantly warm, bringing the smell of wildflowers. But, looking up, the canopy overhead was not the sky but, dizzyingly, the wavering surface of the lake from below, through which the sun filtered only dimly, leaving them in perpetual twilight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHH okay so. like a month ago rey wrote a snippet about lancelot inviting gawain to visit his mother. and i thought about it ever since so with permission i wrote a follow up. this is reys characterization for a bigger thing where they are. technically the villains if very sympathetic ones so. theyre a bit different from how i usually write them lol 
> 
> shoutout to rey at gawain-in-green for being a really good writer and friend and letting me play around w this characterization and shoutout to eddie for help with pretentious crimes

“How long should I pack for?” Gawain asked, throwing open a chest.

Lancelot considered this point. He considered every point with great care, whether or not it deserved consideration. “The last time I visited I stayed for four months but-- I wouldn’t detain you nearly so long.”

“I’d stay as long as I’m welcome and you want to stay. I meant how long do we expect to travel-- and which lake is it?”

“The lake,” he answered laconically. 

Gawain grinned. “You do that on purpose, don’t you? I won’t fall for it anymore. I know you aren’t nearly the artless bucolic you pretend to be.”

He smiled back, the way he did, ducking his head. “I meant what I said. Any lake is a way to my mothers, in theory. Practically, we’ll have to travel for about two weeks either way.”

“I see.” Gawain emptied several more chests onto the floor. So far, packing resembled ransacking more than anything else. “I’ll tell my uncle to expect me gone anywhere from one month to six, and let him puzzle over it.”

Lancelot, who wasn’t planning on telling anyone he was leaving except maybe Dinadan, merely watched the violent strewing about of possessions continue. 

“I don’t think anyone needs to own that many shirts,” he said, without recrimination.

Gawain glanced up. “Oh, well, a lot of them are stolen from you.”

Lancelot blinked. “Why?”

“I wanted to see when you’d notice,” said Gawain, who liked to pretend his only emotions were dry amusement and lust, the second only generously for the sake of others. “You can’t have them back.”

“I didn’t ask for them back.”

“Excellent!” Gawain said, slamming a lid closed. “We’re in accordance. And I’m done packing.”

“How the hell--”

* * *

The approached Marseilles ten days after leaving Camelot, the weather having been mild and roads clear. The trip was, for the most part, pleasant and uneventful. The two most significant events were that Gringolet caught a rabbit-- a horrifying sight neither would forget-- and they did some mild arson to create a distraction around the border of Brittany. And Gawain tried to learn Occitan, to mediocre results. 

They dismounted at the shore of a lake, water sparkling with sunlight in the late morning warmth. The held the reins loosely.

Gawain stood staring at it for a while, seemingly in admiration. “So are you just going to walk into the water or…..” he trailed off haltingly.

“It’s not a real lake?”

“Ah! I knew that, of course.”

Lancelot smiled. “Of course, you know everything.”

Confidently, Gawain strode over the small grey stones of the shore, sending them skittering into the water, and stopped suddenly as an inch tall wave lapped against his boot. “You’re sure that she wants to meet-- me?”

“I am.” With an expression of private, fond amusement at this sudden hesitance, Lancelot took his hand, and the pair of them passed from Occitania to the realm of The Lady.

It was much like the land they had left-- there was a gentle breeze, pleasantly warm, bringing the smell of wildflowers. But, looking up, the canopy overhead was not the sky but, dizzyingly, the wavering surface of the lake from below, through which the sun filtered only dimly, leaving them in perpetual twilight. 

There was a moment of panicked vertigo, then a tug on his hand as if to pull him back to solid ground. If solid ground was a thing that existed here. Gawain readjusted his expectations of what the world and ones experiences in it was to be, took a breath, and was considered himself recentered.

“Well, we have arrived. Acta alea est!”

“Is that a good thing?” Lancelot looked out over the low hill, nestled at the foot of which was a rather picturesque village. 

“It’s all about the spirit of bold adventure and eventual perforation. Shall we sally forth?”

“In a moment,” Lancelot said, distant wistfulness painted on his face. “I haven’t-- it’s been a long time.”

They stood looking companionably at the arcadian scene for a long beat. Then, as some unseen signal, Lancelot sighed and made a faint gesture onward. “Alright. She knows I’m here already, so we don’t need to worry about rudely surprising her.”

The people of the town weren’t quite human. But they were solid. They were people, not shadows or puppets, and they cheered to see the return or a man who’s left them as a child. He waved, uncomfortable at the attention but flushed with bashful pride. The weight that settled on him at court was lifted entirely as they approached. 

Lancelot was almost giddy-- as close as Lancelot could possibly get to giddy, which was fairly distant-- as they reached the house at the edge of the small community, a pleasant but not opulent cabin-like structure, red and pink wildflowers pressing up against the walls like waves crashing against high cliffs.

The woman standing in the door was alien and familiar at once, a different picture when separated from the shining white garments, the mist over the lake at night, the black blade in her open arms.

She presented a very different woman, in her plain grey dress, face too young for deep wrinkles but too old for youth, lines brought out only with a wide smile like the one now painting her face brightly.

Lancelot had visited only once in the years between when he was very young, and very unhappy. He had stayed longer than he intended, and not long enough.

The Lady stepped forward to meet them, progress interrupted by her son rushing to her. She stared at him in wonder for only a second before lacing her arms around his neck, in an embrace clumsy with time apart. He had changed too much to fit the same anymore, and adjustment would be needed. 

After a few moments, she pulled back, held him at arm’s length for examination.

“My prince,” she said fondly. 

“Maman,” he looked happy. He looked happy in a way he never was, had been before thought impossible.

Gawain had the guilty urge to pretend to drop something, clear his throat, make Lancelot remember he was there. If better nature didn’t prevail, the rare smile on his friend’s face did, and he waited, pretended to fiddle with Gringolet’s tack. Finally,

“Oh, this is my-- friend,” Lancelot turned, drew in a breath. “Ami. Sir Gawain of Orkney.”

“It is my great pleasure to meet you again my Lady,” he said politely.

“I see. And are you a very good knight, Sir Gawain?” Her tone was light, but the soft smile on her lips didn’t rise to her dark eyes. “I have heard that you are a terrible influence. And I have heard you called Bon Chevalier. Is it true?”

_ “I saw you in the stands,” Lancelot said, hinting hopefully at some other meaning, that he did not have faith in his own ability to express. “And acted-- because of that.”  _

_ Gawain laid back on the rumpled sheets and considered the pieces he’d been given. He was often told things this way, from a man whose mind moved far faster than his mouth. “You killed him for my sake?” _

_ “Are you pleased?” _

_ “He was a bastard who had it coming. Yes, I’m pleased.” And he was, far more than he said, less that the offensive man was dead, more that it had been thus affected by Lancelot for his sake. _

_ “I’ve still gotten blood on your hands,” Lancelot said distantly, taking them in his own. _

_ Gawain smirked. “Well, I asked if you wanted to wash off first.” _

_ Lancelot didn’t laugh. His mood was dark and reflective tonight, and wouldn’t change so quickly. Closing the distance between them, Gawain pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Don’t worry, it’s far too late for me.” _

_ “And for me?”  _

_ “I should think.” He said mildly, then softened. “I’m sorry, did you not know?” _

_ “I know.” _

_ “Well, think about it like this, Love--” Gawain turned, settled with his arms crossed over Lancelot’s chest, studying his face. “You have Christian sensibilities and reckon we’re both doomed to hell already. I have a more old fashioned view, that whatever gods there are care not for our lives but adore idiosyncrasy. Where ever we are going, we’ll be rewarded for creativity, or forgotten.” _

_ “I’m following,” Lancelot granted, not cheered but at least intrigued. _

_ “So, we make as much happy hell as we can and live our lives in well, meaning hedonistic agony till we kill ourselves. Then we rot.” _

_ “And if I’m right?”  _

_ Gawain grinned and kissed him deeply. “Then we walk hand in hand into hell and are greeted with a hero’s welcome.” _

_ This, now, had earned him a wry smile. “I’m sure cheers will rise from the legions to see two such wicked murderers.” _

_ “And degenerates, don’t forget!” _

_ “Not me.” _

_ “You’re an accomplice,” Gawain said, gesturing to the state of things.  _

_ Lancelot embraced him as if to quiet him, which Gawain accepted with a soft sigh, settling tiredly into his arms. “Proudly.” _

“I try my best, my lady,” Gawain said, something uncommonly earnest in his voice, as if laid bare.

For a moment, her face was cold, as it rarely ever was. Then her eyes drifted to her son, to the red hilted sword at his waist, and softened. “It is all you can, then. Come inside, won’t you?”

They crossed the threshold into her home, and the eerie light of the lake-sky faded into cheery candle glow.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That was a very inspiring speech,” Priamus said mildly, gazing out on the walls of Lombardy from the hill they were camped on. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a short thing inspired by an incident in the alliterative morte, which i personally think is criminally underrated tbh

“That was a very inspiring speech,” Priamus said mildly, gazing out on the walls of Lombardy from the hill they were camped on. 

The commander himself watched as if impartial as Sir Florent led his troops out. “Thank you. I try. Complete nonsense, unfortunately.” Gawain smirked conspiratorially. “Noble Sir Florent will freeze up-- he’s a coward, I think. He’s cruel to his horse, and cowards are often cruel to things under their power.”

Priamus considered this new knowledge as below them, as so many scattered game pieces, the Britons under Florent met with the Duke’s troops pouring out of the keep on either side. “They’ll need aid then, and quickly.”

Gawain hummed in agreement, completely relaxed as Florent and his men begun to break rank. Responding to this weakness and wanting an easy victory, more men poured from the safety of the walls and onto the open field, green grass turning a muddy dark brown in patches. 

The patches grew and Florent broke, the survivors turning in wild panic to push back to where the main body of Gawain’s force waited nervously for the signal to ride out. The last of the Duke’s men were sent out to block escape, as Florent unwittingly led them farther and farther from their safety in an effort to return to his own.

Expression cooly even, Gawain beckoned over a waiting man. “We are in range now with longbows?”

“Of most of them, my lord, yes,” he answered, grimacing at the sight their vantage point allowed.

Gawain nodded. “Two volleys in quick succession. At your command, as soon as possible.”

“My Lord, we would be firing in part upon our own men,” the soldier knew better to say. He gave the order, and it was carried out. 

“Florent fell,” Priamus noticed, gesturing down, without anything like judgement-- some simple shock, yes, but more intrigue. 

Gawain stirred finally to action, mounting quickly. “Pity.” Then louder, he announced they were now to charge, splitting the cavalry in twain to flank both sides. 

They rode down far too late to help Florent and his men, and took the city that night. Later, Gawain would report that the city was spared protracted siege and violent raizing, and the Britons had remarkably few casualties, excepting Sir Florent and his men. 

But when the Queen asked him to recount the taking of the city, he would laugh dismissively, say that war and strategy was dull, and there were better tales to tell-- and Priamus might see something pass across his friends face. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a regular not weird AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> learn about windows or else if u want the gay people

“Yesterday night someone smashed my front and drivers side windows in with a tire iron,” Guinevere reported calmly, taking a sip of her coffee. 

Gawain had no visible reaction to this news. “Huh. Sorry to hear that. I’ll handle it for you, of course.”

She stared at him with flat suspicion. “Of course.” Picking up a folder and perusing it casually at her desk, she continued. “Happens a lot around here. Last week someone threw a rock through the window of your car, right? And Arthur’s window was broken the week before that. And Bedivere--”

“Sure is odd gotta go bye,” Gawain said quickly and ducked out of her office. He was her intern, or assistant, or secretary, maybe. Functionally this meant he fetched things and did paperwork part-time while he went to grad school. He got something decent to put on his resume while she didn’t have to make her own coffee and could concentrate on important lawyer things.

Or she had, before she’d asked Gawain to take care of a chip in her car two months previous, and he had apparently decided that watching windows be replaced was his new favourite pastime. She sighed, consigned to make her own coffee, and returned to drafting a brief on Mark’s defamation lawsuit. 

Outside her office, Gawain was loitering in the hallway on the phone with the office whose number he had memorized by now. 

“Hey, Elaine it’s me again. Yeah. The Lexus IS from last month. And the month before, yeah. Oh, a chip repair isn’t gonna cut it, no.” He waved idly at Kay as he passed as if to indicate he was taking care of important attorney matters. Kay didn’t buy it and stopped, waiting for the call to finish.

“Could you fit it in tomorrow, anytime between nine and three?” He gave Kay a weird look as if to say  _ just scheduling appointments, doing my job, nothing to see here, why are you glaring at me.  _ Kay remained unconvinced. 

“Ten is great, thank you, Elaine.” Gawain tried to stall, hoping Kay would remember something important he had to do. “That would be a drive away by noon? Oh, no, nowhere to be, just asking. Yeah. Okay, thanks.”

Regrettably, he ended the call. “Hey, Kay.”

“Gwalchmai. Would that be the Autoglass repair company?” His tone was somewhere between icy condemnation and amusement. Gawain nodded reluctantly.

“Are you going to tell me why you keep breaking windows, Gwalchmai?”

“How can I, I’m not doing it,” Gawain smirked and turned to walk away, feeling more than seeing Kay’s eye roll as he set off down the hallway with no real destination.

Gawain was waiting in the parking lot at 9:10 the next morning, just in case he came early, which he never did. He being the installer who Gawain contrived to keep so busy. 

“Hey, Lancelot,” Gawain said, very casually, when he finally arrived one thousand hours later at 10:05. Lancelot was tall and sweet and had a nice smile and Gawain though he was just kind of neat. 

Lancelot waved sort of awkwardly, then looked with alarm at the state of the car. “Oh, wow. This is a dangerous parking lot, huh?”

“Stuff gets broken all the time, everywhere. A baseball bat can happen to anyone,” Gawain said defensively. “Is it weird? I don’t think it’s weird.”

Lancelot looked between Gawain and the car, and shrugged. “I guess it’s not weird.”

He set to the now practised task of removing the cowl and mirror from Guinevere’s car, while Gawain sat on the curb and kept up a steady stream of conversation. 

“How can you not like horses if you want to be a cowboy?” Gawain challenged, building on a point from last Thursday. 

Lancelot spared him a brief glance, looking up from the ever troublesome molding. “I don’t dislike horses, um, as an idea, you know. It’s just in practice-- they don’t like me.”

“My horse would like you,” Gawain promised, then quickly put a stop to that line of conversation before it moved out of the strictly theoretical. 

“You have a horse?” The molding finally gave in, and was discarded somewhere in the seemingly infinite recesses of the truck bed, in favour of the Knife Box, as Gawain mentally dubbed it.

Gawain shrugged modestly. “He technically belongs to the college. But I’m saving up to buy him from them eventually, hopefully.”

Selecting a medium-sized set of blades, Lancelot began at the top of the windshield, dragging the twin blades over and down in tandem to cut it out. “That’s really neat. I hope you’re able to.”

“Well, if not I’ll just steal him,” he said, casually, as if it was a joke.

Lancelot laughed. “Somehow I don’t think you’re joking.”

He froze for a moment, then shrugged, sort of relieved to have been seen through. “I’m not. But I’ll make the offer to do it legally first.”

“That’s very generous of you, I think.” Lancelot tugged out the knives and brought out a smaller one. “I would just steal your horse, uh, as plan A.”

“You rustle many horses, Lancelot?” Gawain said, proper tone escaping him for a moment. 

With a slight flush, which was from the heat, probably, he shook his head. “Unfortunately, uh, I’m only a cowboy in theory.”

“You’d make a handsome cowboy,” Gawain shouldn’t have said and really did not mean to say aloud. 

“Fuck,” said Lancelot, because he’d maybe been a little surprised and accidentally just sliced his hand open. “Oops.”

“Oh, no.” Gawain stood up, because maybe that would help. 

Lancelot went to wave his hand and show it was fine, realized that would splatter blood everywhere, and instead announced that it was fine verbally. “It’s fine, I have uh-- paper towels and duct tape and--” he scanned the truck bed for medical supplies. “A staple gun.”

“Absolutely not, I have a first aid kit in my car.” 

“It’s not a competition,” he mumbled in what was likely an attempt at a joke, pressing a rapidly reddening paper towel to his palm. “Erm. Thank you.”

Gawain fetched the first aid kit and returned to, as was his idiom, arrange things to his satisfaction. Still holding a now drenched paper towel, Lancelot sat on the tailgate and held out his hand. 

Reminding himself that this was in no way gay or tender or anything like that, Gawain opened up the first aid kit. This was his fault and not a romantic situation even if Lancelot did look kind of neat covered in blood, and if technically they were holding hands, technically. 

“Does that hurt?” Gawain asked cautiously, dabbing at the welling blood. Lancelot took longer to decide on this question than he perhaps should.

“Kind of. Not really. I have a, what’s it called? High pain threshold.”

Gawain uncapped the antiseptic. “Neat.”

And if he leaned forward so their faces were closer, it was only to see better as he bandaged Lancelot’s hand, and if Lancelot also leaned forward, that was his imagination. And he was just moving so slowly because he was being very careful and thorough, and not for any other reason.

But all things must come to an end, and, eventually, the wound was nominally bandaged. Which left them with another problem, which was that Guinevere’s windshield was not completely attached to her car and was, overmore, the owner of some significant holes. 

Gawain insisted it was fine, Lancelot worriedly argued it wasn’t, and somehow they decided that two competent hands were the equivalent of one competent and two incompetent ones, and they could complete the job together. Which was not an ideal solution except that they both privately thought it was. 

“Alright. You’re in charge. What’s the next step?”

Lancelot, who hated being in charge of anything and especially a Lexus, frowned. “Uh-- we have to finish cutting it out, and then since there was shattered glass we have to vacuum the interior.”

Gawain nodded judiciously and gestured to the knife box. “Right. Which one do I use?”

Looking nervous at the prospect of Gawain using a knife in any capacity, Lancelot dithered.

“I know how to handle knives. I’ve been in fights,” Gawain said as if to assuage any fears. This did not assuage anything. Reluctantly, Lancelot handed him the largest knife, which was just a big razor blade attached to metal PVC pipe, for torque. 

“Like this?”

“Ah, no-- higher angle? And you have to push with your other hand at the bottom to keep it from falling on you--” He reached out with his uninjured hand to adjust, then stopped.

Gawain froze. “You can show me.”

“Ah-- okay. Okay. Uh, yeah.” Lancelot put his hand over Gawain’s and guided the knife. Gawain decided to stop breathing and thinking, which is a bad thing to do when applying force to a large knife pointed towards your body. 

“Is-- that right?” Gawain managed, looking straight down and not at Lancelot and the fact they were touching in many places.

“Kind of? Hng.”

Somehow it turned out alright, and they managed to breathlessly jimmy the window out in only two pieces and with no further injuries to anything but dignity.

“Okay,” said Gawain when they were standing a few feet apart again and the broken window shards had been vacuumed and tossed into a bin in the back of the truck. “Okay. What’s next?”

Lancelot blinked and momentarily smiled blearily as if a joke had been made, realized one hadn’t, frowned. “We have to run the urethane bead around-- uh, and also clean and primer the new window. I can do that with one hand.”

“Cool,” Gawain noted distantly, trying to remember what urethane was. 

“Oh, uh, you need disposable gloves-- there’s a box in the back of the truck. The stuff to get urethane off will make your hands rough and-- yours are very soft.” He seemed to regret this statement immediately, and nervously cracked the primer stick with an unhappy snap of pliers.

“Thanks,” Gawain said, not for the gloves. He put them on anyway, and fetched objects according to Lancelot’s direction. A weird tube of black goo was wrestled into a hard plastic nerf gun thing, the top snipped, and a giant frosting tip screwed on. 

“Just… run it around the outside?”

“It’s easier said than done,” Lancelot explained gently. It was. Three attempts had to be made and Gawain’s nice button-up was ruined with black streaks of urethane, red blood and sweat. And as soon as he did successfully have urethane down, it was time to carry a heavy windshield and very carefully place and hold it. There were weird vacuum-sealed handles which could have doubled as blunt force weapons and made the sound of an octopus detaching from the edge of its tank.

There was, admittedly, a bit of victorious pride when they taped up the window, and got the cowl, molding and window back on, and could stand back and look at a car which hadn’t been savagely attacked with a baseball bat. 

“We did it,” Gawain grinned. “Fuck yeah. High five.”

They high fived. Lancelot swore. “Ow. I shouldn’t-- I forgot-- wrong hand,” he laughed. Gawain laughed, maybe a bit guiltily. They lingered long over the paperwork.

Eventually, Lancelot drove away, and Gawain was left standing in the parking lot in the middle of the afternoon.

“You look like you fought the car and lost,” Kay laughed when he finally tramped back into the building. “What is that in your hair?”

“Urethane,” Gawain said with all the dignity he could muster, and stalked back into Guinevere’s office.

“Good to see you, Gawain, it’s been a while,” Guinevere smirked thinly as he reentered her office. “You have five hours worth of coffee and copies to make. How was your date?”

He almost dropped the pile of papers she’d handed to him. “My what?”

She leaned over her desk, chin perched on two thin clever hands, with an expression that told she’d caught him. “I know all. I can read the truth of your actions from your face, and know your guilt from your pathetic body language.”

“You saw from your window.”

“I saw from my window.” She leaned back in her chair. “So, what’s the deal. Are you gonna keep smashing in my window link a coward? Or are you gonna ask him out?”

Gawain frowned. “I’m not--”

“Oh good lord, put those papers down, your getting goo all over them. I’m bored. Sit.”

He sat in the chair indicated. “I’m not going to ask him out. It would be creepy because he’s, you know, at work technically.”

She considered that. “Interesting. That’s a fair point. But now you’re at an impasse-- you can’t ask him out because that’s his job, but the only context in which you know him is a workplace. You have no other connection. So you’re gonna what, keep smashing my windows in and wait to run into him by coincidence? You’re costing me a good several thousand per month.”

“I-- forgot about that. Sorry.” He grimaced. “Yeah, okay, that was my plan and I will admit that it is bad.” 

That done, she nodded smugly. “So here’s the new plan-- we must manufacture your coincidence. If you learn what bars or cafes he frequents you can just happen to be there.”

Gawain winced. “Ew, no. Guinevere that’s so creepy. I’m not doing that.”

She nodded. “Good. You don’t have too. Morgan used to date his mom, he’ll be invited to my house party next weekend.” 

There was a very long, shocking silence.

“Why…” he said slowly, “the  _ fuck  _ did you not say that earlier?”

Guinevere shrugged. “I wanted to see how low you would stoop. You passed the test.”

“You’re Machiavellian.”

She smiled modestly. “I’m just you but better, babe. Now go the fuck home. Change your shirt. It’s gross.”

He left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have a part time job doing autoglass replacement and so when we started talking about most obscure aus. this was all i had knowledge in. might snap and write a sequel to this idk


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If you don’t mind, my lady,” she asked, voice as rich and dark as her tapestries, the wrought of the weave subtler still. “Sir Gawain prefers to tell a lovely and colourful tale that in no way resembles real events. I wondered how you might tell the story of your meeting and coming here.”
> 
> “My queen,” Ysabele took a slow sip, over a quirked half-smile “it would be my pleasure. I can’t promise the truth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the roman van walewein is really good is all. stan ysabele

The sound of wine pouring into the fine glasses echoed musically through Queen Guinevere’s bower. Ysabele smiled, and delicately accepted the glass, brushing her finger’s over the queen’s as she did. She didn’t like the drink they had here, but taking wine with someone wasn’t about wine. The rain pattered gently, the sound muffled by the rich tapestries on every wall, thick curtains on the windows.

“If you don’t mind, my lady,” she asked, voice as rich and dark as her tapestries, the wrought of the weave subtler still. “Sir Gawain prefers to tell a lovely and colourful tale that in no way resembles real events. I wondered how you might tell the story of your meeting and coming here.”

“My queen,” Ysabele took a slow sip, over a quirked half-smile “it would be my pleasure. I can’t promise the truth.”

“I don’t wish for the truth. I want to learn about you, and to that end, lies are more telling.”

Ysabele laughed, a light songbirds titter to the other’s dark chuckle. “What else have we to entertain us, with all this rain?”

She settled back on the low couch, watched Guinevere snuff out one of three candles. If her lies were telling, she wondered what Guinevere would glean from the truth. “I shan’t tell the parts of the tale I wasn’t present for. They’re dull. So the tale began in the evening, when a messenger came to me-- one of my handmaidens-- to say there was a man massacring our men at the second gate.’ 

“He was very well mannered, they said, and had asked politely to be let in. I liked that: a man who would abide by chivalry, to the detriment of others if needed. I kept my father from being told as I tracked, by my quiet maidens, his progress through the gates, to what he had made a no man’s land between the fifth and sixth. Still, I redirected the messengers from my father.’ 

“But while he could not be aware, I wanted to know more. I had some hidden ways built into the castle, connected to natural tunnels and abandoned passages and alleys, and so unnoticed I slipped down from the innermost bailey. There was blood on the ground, more than could be imagined, in the courtyard between them, bodies and loose limbs and some men still groaning out their last breaths. I stepped around them, careful not to stain the hem of my gown-- it was new.”

Guinevere nodded at this. “You were used to blood?”

“Oh, very. I found the hall, and our Sir Gawain, asleep amongst the abandoned things of the men who had fled before him. His armour was scattered around, and it would have been easy to slip a dagger between his ribs. I was weighing this-- he is very handsome, you know, so I thought it would be a pity-- when I saw the sword, and knew he had come for me.’

“This may sound petty, but I was very bored at Endi. I wondered where he would take me. Of course, should I let him do this, I’d need to have assurance I could at any point not be taken. So I stole something from him, before I stole out myself, something not possibly replaced that he could not possibly return here without.”

There was a slight gust of wind, rusting the curtains weightily, making both candles sputter and one go out. Guinevere raised one arched eyebrow. “And what might that item be?”

Another sweet laugh like a flute. “You’ll have to guess, I’m afraid. But he missed it dearly. I’m sure he felt bereft the next day, as he tricked his way through further gates. A messenger eventually got through to my father, and Gawain was captured, though not without bloodshed. I stepped in and asked my father for the right to torture this knight to death, and so he was, bound and gagged, delivered to my dungeon. I won’t elaborate in too much detail the following.”

“Thank you.”

“All things come to an unfortunate end. Eyes, and tongues, the two most troublesome aspects of people, and we were thrown in separate jail cells. The system of obligations being as always a safety, he called in a favour, and a spectral red creature led us out and across the river.’ 

“It seemed like an absurd sort of children’s story, at first. There was a talking fox and a magic horse, and his wounds healed in a day under the touch of the sun. But we went on, and it was real. We rode on, towards Ravenstene, and head great fun with some would-be abductors, till we were a day out. I asked if he would truly hand me over, and he denied it. I asked if he planned to break his promise and he denied that, too. I wondered that this whole dilemma might be solved if the king were to drop dead. He said that would be dishonourable, and we went to bed for the night. 

The next morning, we arrived, and found the king suddenly passed away, sometime in the night. Very sad. We rode out and I revealed his item to him, and returned it so he could return to court proudly. There were many entertainments and interludes following, but none which diverge to greatly from Gawain’s telling. And that, my lady, is how I came to court.”

She took a long drink of the offensive wine, and the final candle sputtered.

“Quite a story.” Guinevere’s dark hair was loose, something casual and private about it spilling like a black river over her shoulders, tributaries running down her back and chest.

“Did you learn what you wished to?”

She nodded. “I learned that you will do very well here. You know how to act in the dark, and in Camelot, many important things happen there.”

The third candle guttered and failed, and the rain was all there was, and the soft fabric and the two of them. Ysabele demonstrated her knowledge of things in the dark, as the downpour turned to a proper storm.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With evident glee at some unseen signal, it set off, running this way and that across the clearing leaving trails of blood and viscera as the body was torn to ribbons. Sir Gawain the Mild watched impassively.  
> Finally, at the increasing discomfort of the gathered nobility, the lady approached Gawain, stopping a few paces off.  
> “My lord, won’t you come-- we have turned the reception into a feast, and you might be the guest of honour.” After a moment, she added, “The man is dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i literallyjust rewrote a section of the dutch lancelot and the hart with the white foot but gayer. i mean slightly gayer its really peak already. like i changed no plot points. remarkable.
> 
> also i apologize for the That im so sorry a discord server dared me to

The hooves clattering on the pavement were a cruel mirror to the church bells, and those assembled glazed up to them, some with joy, some wrath, most somewhere bemusedly between.

Without dismounting he approached and addressed the knight who would marry that day, if he got his wish. 

“What manner of man is this,” he asked, voice calm and steady, resounding, “who would marry such a worthy lady?” 

For a moment he had a dry amusement in his face, as they glanced to the lady, who was grinning despite herself. Then something distant burned out that gentler emotion to coldness, and he settled again on the groom, who demanded to know what he wanted.

“You have won the right to marry this woman lawfully, by completing the task she set you? On your honour?”

Of course, he blustered. 

The sun glinted harshly overhead, reflecting blindingly on Sir Gawain’s armour-- for that was who it was. He slowly removed his glove, no hint of anger or rashness in his body or voice. When this was done, gauntlet held loosely in the still worn other, he looked up. “This is a lie. You were given the white foot to bring here by one who won it lawfully, whom you inflicted evil harm on without cause.”

The gauntlet was tossed, arced, and fell at the feet of the stuttering groom.

“You won’t escape me, not even in hell.”

The groom protested his innocence, threatened and cajoled, but Sir Gawain would hear none of it. Finally, he snarled out an agreement, bristling commands to his squires and men to prepare him for combat brimming with confident spite.

“I am not afraid of you, stranger,” The knight accepted his sword from a boy with a rough jerk, as his horse was brought over, and the open space where a wedding had been occurring became a tourney ground.

“Well, fear me if you can. I cannot return the feeling, and maybe you are right to laugh at that. Maybe I’m a sun-addled fool and don’t know to whom I speak.” Gawain replaced his gauntlet methodically as the groom was mounted across him. “And maybe I am not.”

The combat began with the nervous chittering of the crowd a drone like bees in springtime. They rode at each other, lances shattering, went back again and whip-quick as a snake Gawain drew his black-bladed sword and struck the knight’s head from his body. 

It was over so quickly that for a few moments the gathered seemed unsure what to do, shifting uncomfortably in the warmth of the day, the only sound the rustling of clothing, birdsong, the burbling of blood over the back of an increasingly panicked horse as the dead weight shifted atop it.

As quickly as the man had been beheaded, Gawain slipped from the fine roan he rode onto the torn and red soaked earth. The lady cheered, and the rest joined in, milling curiously as the good ladies saviour cut the straps attaching the man’s body to his horse and brought him to the ground, giving the beast several gentle pats and handing it off to a squire. 

Then he did a curious thing, standing there, chest heaving from-- exertion, that was it, for he was so calm-- and his sword was naked in his hand and shaking. With a sudden violent motion, he jerked the man’s body up in a mockery of standing and dragged him over to the massive roan, tying him to the patient horse’s tail. 

With evident glee at some unseen signal, it set off, running this way and that across the clearing leaving trails of blood and viscera as the body was torn to ribbons. Sir Gawain the Mild watched impassively.

Finally, at the increasing discomfort of the gathered nobility, the lady approached Gawain, stopping a few paces off. 

“My lord, won’t you come-- we have turned the reception into a feast, and you might be the guest of honour.” After a moment, she added, “The man is dead.”

Thoughtfully, Gawain considered the state of the body still being dragged back and forth across the field. “αἲ γάρ πως αὐτόν με μένος καὶ υμὸς ἀνείη ὤμ' ἀποταμνόμενον κρέα ἔδμεναι, οἷα μ' ἔοργας, ὡς οὐκ ἔσθ' ὃς σῆς γε.”

“I don’t know what that means, sir.”

He turned to her, startled as if out of a dream. “Nothing of substance. I will unhitch him, then I must be off.”

“With your house tired and covered in blood? The sun going down? There is a feast waiting for you and--” here was the crux of the issue-- “I hoped you might tell me something of the man I am now engaged to.”

This must have stirred in him some sympathy, for he cut the body free, leaving what was left of it on the ground, and saw his horse cared for and fed, changed into fine clothes and joined them. He had a warm welcome, and if the treatment of the body gave them pause, it didn’t colour their liking of the man who had delivered their lady from the obligation of marrying such an unfortunate groom. 

* * *

They gave him a very fine bed. A less generous person may think privately to himself that they were making a very big thing indeed out of their nice bed. Gawain tried to be generous, when he could.

Perhaps it was a very fine bed, but nevertheless he was awake in it, supine with hands in fists twisting the very fine sheets. The very fine canopy above glinted too brightly in the dim light from the open window, and insanely he was wondering where the man’s body was, thinking that he should have cut him into tiny pieces and fed them to the dogs, or burned it, or something, surely there was something else to be done that he had missed, some revenge yet to be had, blood to be spilled that might fill a desolate hollow place-- 

This is why he was awake. The man was dead, but still he was angry with no villain upon which to exorcise it except in resentment at his own idle uselessness  _ Inertia is death,  _ Gawain thought, but did not know what he meant by it. 

* * *

Gawain set off very early that morning, in the haste of a man pursued by unseen assailants. Arriving around noon at the residence of the physician, he left Gringolet untethered, with scarcely a cursory knock on the sturdy wooden front door before he rudely barged in unanswered. The physician made no comment on this, merely met him in the hall.

“Is there any change while I was away?” Gawain demanded as greeting.

The physician was an older man well used to knights and other silly people, and took this gracefully. “Some, for the better. He is a strong young man in mostly good health and likely to recover, in time.”

_ Likely to. “ _ Likely to?”

“Very likely, Sir.”

Gawain made a few quick mental calculations as to whether there was anyone even vaguely responsible for this situation who was alive so he could amend that state, and found none. “I see.” 

This was not how things were supposed to be. An evil act had been done, and avenged, and yet still it had been done, with no recourse but to wait. Any supernatural restorative aid had already been given-- was the reason he was still alive to likely recover at all. All natural aid was being given. The situation was, from every possible angle, out of Gawain’s hands, and there wasn’t even anyone to hurt about it.

“I will see him.” Gawain announced, brushing past the unresisting physician and into the spare room, where he had left the previous morning. The windows were open widely to let in the warm breeze and gentle sunlight, the fire lit in the grate, a bed and a chair and a table beside the bed, and hung cloth lining the walls to keep the warmth in. insensible to all of this, Gawain stood in the doorway a moment.

“Gawain?”

“Yes,” he said, which was a rather stupid thing to say. “You’re awake?” Another stupid thing to say, but he must be excused for this.

“Kind of,” Lancelot went to shrug, winced and decided against it. “I think possibly, yes.”

“Oh, good. This is-- I’m sorry--” Gawain crossed the room to the side of the bed and knelt there, arms resting above the covers without reaching out to touch him. “I-- the man is dead. That betrayed you.”

Lancelot turned painfully to look at him. “You killed him?”

“Yes.” If some satisfaction should have come from that knowledge, neither felt it strongly. 

Both were quiet a moment, went to speak and did not. Then, movements heavy and hesitant, Lancelot extended a bandaged arm, scarred hand brushing against Gawain’s and catching on his fingers like an anchor on some lonely crag on the seafloor. Holding it there in both of his, Gawain bent over to gently press his lips to the top of Lancelot’s knuckles.

“Lay down next to me?”

Eyes still cast down, tracing the white scars that ran skittering across his fingers, Gawain nodded. There was a resulting awkward shuffle, in which neither was willing to let go of the other's hand, but eventually settled equitably facing each other.

The room was comfortably warm, and the only sound was a wood warbler perched outside the far window and their breathing.

“You were crying,” Lancelot said after a long silence in which he’d been thought asleep.

“What?”

“You were, I remember. In the woods.”

“No I wasn’t.”

“Liar.” There was warm teasing in his voice like the sunlight from the windows against which their backs were turned. 

Exhaling softly, finally, Gawain agreed. “I am.”

It seemed a fortunate thing to be, at that moment, even if it were useless.


	14. by chance,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two men met another on the road, by chance, as it happens often. The lone man was older, knew things, which is not always a safe thing to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhhh this is for rey!! welcome back!!!
> 
> vaguely based on a bit from le morte but with some significant changes

Two men met another on the road, by chance, as it happens often. The lone man was older, knew things, which is not always a safe thing to do. He had met another old man when he wasn’t one himself, and this creature, now long locked away, must have touched his mind some way. It’s unimportant-- all of it is to say he had curiosity and a bad feeling and read what was written on the hilt of a sword. It struck him down before the words were all out, the syllables which spilled from his lips turning abruptly garbled, followed by a tide of blood to wash his mouth clean of the sacrilege. 

No good deed goes unpunished, and neither unavenged-- or at least, something like that was attempted. A young knight with a mind to chivalry and hopes of glory might see two villains standing by the body of an old man, still bloody, and come to natural conclusions. He should by all rights of good stories, defeat these recreats. 

He will bleed out there on the road. Wild animals will find his body after night falls, and his name will be forgotten. Having continued on in the intervening hours, the pair will be long gone by the time the foxes, crows and maggots begin fighting for corporal territory in the bodies.

They camped in the burned out remains of a little hill fort, split now by a small creek and carpeted in creeping vines and moss. The ceiling was the firmament, clear that night, held up by a sweet faced Atlas of drooping willows and birch. As lovely a place as any one might find, riding up and down the land as they did.

They were sitting across from each other, on the sort of bench made by old walls crumbling low. 

“Here, hold still,” Gawain said, an unnecessary reminder. Lancelot was good at being still, while he was the one always in motion. He settled into it now, taking Lancelot’s hand and carefully removing the gauntlet. The fight earlier was not anywhere near a fair one, and Lancelot was uninjured except one long cut on his left hand, already a poor battered thing, banded with white scars like the swirls on a tree, marking the pattern of his life in much the same way. Currently, those light designs were washed with reddish brown blood, starting to coagulate and crust unpleasantly. 

Methodically, Gawain wet a spare cloth and cleaned the old blood away, pressing the soft fabric down when new blood flowed forth, till it ebbed. 

“Are you angry with me?”

He took a moment to answer, as if occupied with the action of cutting thin strips of fabric. “No. I haven’t yet in my life been angry with you, and believe me, you would know.”

“But you’re displeased-- that I killed the old man,” Lancelot pressed.

“It did strike me as unwise, and unlike you,” Gawain admitted, neatly bandaging the long cut with practiced ease. “As if to stop words from being spoken would grant them less weight or truth.”

“I wasn’t acting in anger.”

At this Gawain smiled almost fondly. “I know. You never do.” Then, bandages finished off, he raised the affected hand to his lips and brushed a kiss over the knuckles. Then abruptly, he turned and slipped from the wall, taking a half-step, halted by a catch on his wrist. Almost as soon as he’d been caught he was released, in guilty dismay. Nevertheless, he stopped and turned back to study Lancelot’s face.

“The-- the things he said were poisonous,” Lancelot tried to explain. “You didn’t hear.”

“Neither did you. You didn’t wait to hear them.”

He looked away. “I didn’t want to know. What it says. I know that it’s… bad. It’s like the story you told me once, of the man who tried to escape an evil fate and in doing so ran-- right into its arms.”

“Greek,” Gawain said, staring calmly up at him. “The story. Like the writing on your sword. I read it myself, a time ago, when I so unluckily grasped it-- a capital crime, I have heard.”

“Tell me what it says?” Lancelot asked, objections forgotten with something like mad desperation, frightened, in truth. He again grabbed Gawain’s wrist, ignoring the sting on the cut as it twisted, and the miniature red roses that bloomed on the fabric. “Please, Gawain I-- I need to know. Know if things would be better if I-- I need to know.”

And Gawain was serious for a moment, the way he never was. Then, with deliberate slowness, he rose up on his toes, tangled one hand in the hair at Lancelot’s neck to pull him down, and met their lips in the middle for a long kiss. A kiss that still managed to feel as if it ended too soon when Gawain gently broke away. 

“You love me?” he asked, with the ghost of a sad smile like he knew the answer, for better or worse. 

And of course, Lancelot rushed to reassure him to the affirmative, with a litany of half-formed promises, terribly earnest, and any other time Gawain might have laughed. Not out of amusement, but more a complete loss as to what else to do with such honesty, other than laugh at it.

“If that is true,” Gawain said finally, when the substance of the matter at least had been elucidated, “then don’t ever ask me this again.”

Lancelot was still in surprise, and let himself again be pulled down, but all Gawain did was kiss his cheek, rest in that pose for a moment, like he might complete the embrace, and they might linger, together, as it grew colder, the sides of their faces pressed against each other, fingers caught up in lacing with the others. 

Gawain stepped away, and said something about a fire, before vanishing into the gathering dark of trees and shadows. Instead of following, Lancelot let out a breath, fell back to lay comfortably on the uneven stonebench, which dug roughly into his back through his clothes. Gingerly, he relaxed the fist he did not realize had been clutching the hilt of the sword. Blood ran red down his wrist, dripped onto the matching red of the sword like little birds returning to their flock.

When he got back, Gawain would have to bandage the cut again.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the orkneys. exist huh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a quick orkneys lol

“Christ, Gawain,” Gareth said from the doorway, voice tight. Seeing as Gawain currently had their brother pinned against the wall with a knife to his throat, it wasn’t an unreasonable reaction. Of course considering the context, the knife was also arguably a reasonable reaction.

“You're really defending Gaheris? What the fuck.” Agravaine demanded. He was hovering a yard away from the other two. His brain was deciding whether the appropriate response was to pass out, cry, throw up, or some combination, and in the interim he’d fallen back on flimsy belligerence.

“Oh, get off of him. He only killed a pig.”

“Gareth!” Gawain chided, scandalized. He did not let Gaheris go. “Don’t say that about our mother.”

“Yeah, God Gareth. This is what talking to French people does to you.” 

“No, I mean,” he waved his arm awkwardly at the bed. “She switched herself at the last second or something, look.”

Securing Gaheris to the wall with an elbow at his neck, Gawain turned and peered into the other room from which Gareth had emerged. “Huh. Shit. Okay, Gaheris.”

With that, Gaheris was summarily dropped to the floor. He grimaced and rubbed his neck but thought it in his best interest not to say anything. 

The four of them looked through the doorway together for a long minute. There was, in fact, a sow lying beheaded on the bloody sheets, of the same breed that was kept on the estate.

“Don’t expect she paid the owner of whoever’s prize sow that was before magically switching with it,” Gawain said mildly, mentally calculating what he was going to have to pay some beleaguered swineherd. 

“Uhm. I guess the glamour faded while we were arguing,” Agravaine posited. This was pretty obvious, but he felt a need to contribute now that he wasn’t seeing black spots.

Gareth looked out the window, frowning. “She’s long gone by now, I expect. That’s good.”

“Well,” Gawain saluted awkwardly. “Godspeed mom. Glad you didn’t die. Hope we never see you again.”

“Here, here,” Agravaine muttered. Gareth just nodded awkwardly, surveying the bed like he felt obliged to start mopping up blood but knew it would be a poor use of time. Thinking it best he not say anything for a while, Gaheris sat perfectly still and tried to look contrite.

Giving the room a final once over, Gawain nodded decisively. “Alright, we should probably kill Lamorak.”

“Must you?” Gareth looked distasteful.

“Look you don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” said Agravaine, who also didn’t really want to, but not more than he disliked being left out of things. “We’ll bring Mordred instead.”

“You can’t do that, he’s fourteen,” Gareth argued halfheartedly.

“I committed my first murder at twelve, and I’m fine.” With this troubling reassurance, Gawain waved at a shadowy form in the corridor. “Yes we’re discussing you, stop eavesdropping or get better at it. Want to help with a murder? Five to one, very safe.”

“Four to one,” Gareth corrected as Mordred shuffled in, sparing one curious glance to the body and the bed and dismissing it.

“Aw, your first murder. This is exciting,” Gawain said, and gave his brother a pat on the back. Morded shot him a look that promised he’d get revenge for that, sometime in the next two years when he grew taller than Gawain and left him the shortest Orkney again.

“This will be great, it’ll be a bonding experience,” Gawain assured them, and they followed him out of the room.


	16. homoerotic fraud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just thinking about lancelot and gawain and lying and stealing and crimes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic isnt nsfw but there are things that only make sense if uve been in the nsfw channels of various discords. sorry lol

“It’s been three hours,” Gawain noted. He always knew exactly what time it was, and was not hesitant about announcing it when he was bored and was prepared to make this someone else's problem.

“Has it?” Lancelot asked distantly, peering down the road. His horse had been lost in a horse death incident, in which they’d also lost all their money. Gringolet wanted him dead, so for the past few days they’d been walking. Gawain insisted on walking as well for fairness sake, which was probably a half hearted and several decades late attempt to make up for the cart mockery.

They were waiting for someone to come along who could be robbed of their horse and killed, not in that order. Unfortunately, the only people who came along were not rich enough to deserve robbery. And the wine skin was empty.

Gawain clapped his hands together and sat up straighter. This was a bad sign. It meant he was having ideas. “How do you feel about lying and fraud?”

“Favourable, or you and Guinevere would stop talking to me,” Lancelot said, already resigned to whatever Gawain’s scheme of the day was. “How are we stealing a horse?”

“We’re not stealing a horse, we’re buying one. For free.”

“Ah.”

Gawain’s stealing a horse plan commenced with him putting on his fancy armour and riding very grandly into the town they’d been lurking a mile off from. Lancelot was not invited to this stage of the plan. He was still lurking. He was good at it. 

Inside the local minor lord's house, Gawain was announcing that he was in fact Gawain, and people were making quite a fuss about him, which he enjoyed. Stage two commenced with Lancelot’s entrance upon the scene, in plain armour with no horse. He asked for entrance in awkward humbleness that he didn’t have to fake, and it was granted. 

Gawain was seated between the lord and his wife on a fine couch in the hall with a glass of wine in one hand and a pear in the other. There was a basket of them in the arms of a servant nearby. 

With a silent sigh for his paltry acting skills, Lancelot approached the bench, greeted the Lord and Lady with rote compliment and addressed Gawain. “Sir, I’d like to challenge you to a fight.”

Gawain blinked, as if to telepathically communicate that when he’d said “come in and start a fight with me,” he’d assumed Lancelot would have a little more creativity. 

“And may I ask why you issue this challenge, stranger?”

Lancelot frowned. “Uh. It’s my-- my custom to not, not lodge with any knight unless I defeat him in combat.”

“That's a very specific custom,” the lady pointed out. 

“Well, I was cursed. I was cursed not to say how, also,” Lancelot added, hoping to get ahead of things. 

“Curious,” Gawain said, and smiled slightly, as if he knew Lancelot was resisting the urge to fondly roll his eyes. “Very well, I accept your challenge. Though you don’t have a horse, it wouldn’t be fair…”

The lord stumbled over himself to offer use of one of his, and Gawain finished his drink. “Excellent. Show me to the field?”

He liked to politely end his commands with question marks, as if to falsely imply anyone had a choice in the matter. And, as Gawain stalled proceedings with all the drama of a stage actor, and word spread about the grand affair going down-- surely this event would be the talk of the town for the next three decades-- Lancelot crept off and made a few bets. 

Accordingly, they assembled across from each other in a handy field, Lancelot outfitted with a serviceable horse. Everyone in the town was gathered around in cheery anticipation of violence. The inevitable betting was less about who would win and more about how incredibly injured the stranger would be. 

Across from him, Gawain gave a friendly wave, sitting straight and looking cocky. He’d apparently decided to embrace eventual heeldom. 

( _ “You don’t think this’ll ruin your reputation?” _

_ “Nothing has so far!” _ )

The signal to start was given, and they rode at each other in the joust, practiced, a measured pattern. The first was a draw, both lances shattered and neither unhorsed. The second time Lancelot allowed himself to be knocked to the ground, and Gawain allowed him to remount, as the crowd cheered. The third time Gawain was unhorsed (he hadn’t allowed this, but he had figured on it) and Lancelot did not give him the courtesy he himself had been shown springing from his horse with sword drawn.

“You need to say something brave,” Gawain remarked, comments lost to the crowd under the clashing of metal. “When you’re giving a big headed lout who thinks he’s all that what for, you-- ah!”

Whatever he had to do was lost to the ages, as Lancelot swung low and to the side, forcing Gawain off his center of balance to block it, and thus allowing him to bash with a shield and try to knock his opponent down. 

Gawain stumbled back a step but quickly regained his balance at the expense of Lancelot, whose upper arm he grabbed at the same time he brought his sword up to swing at his head. Blocking it, their faces were brought almost together. 

Invisible to the crowd, so fast Lancelot almost believed it hadn’t happened, Gawain pressed a kiss to his cheek. Then, Gawain kneed him in the stomach and attempted to cut his head in half. Love is fickle. 

“God, did I really throw you off?” Gawain asked bemusedly, as his homicidal attempts were closer to successful than anticipated. 

“Mhm,” said Lancelot. He had recently remembered a tendency to go overboard and forget himself in fights and was diverting a great deal of mental energy to Not Doing That. 

“Oh, well, wouldn’t want you embarrassed in front of all these people,” Gawain narrowly sidestepped a downstroke, broke his sword up to block from above after a preternatural recovery. “No?”

Lancelot didn’t say anything, but he thought a great deal of things, and was glad to be wearing a helmet. 

“You can do better than that!” Gawain said encouragingly, as his shield was cracked by a weighty blow. “Aren’t you going to pin me to the ground and make me bleed?”

That was well received, if well received meant resulting in renewed attempts at bloodshed, to prevent an incident if nothing else. Gawain's shield couldn’t take another hit but he wasn’t throwing the fight without, well, a fight. 

An overhead blow split his shield, and he abandoned it, changing strategy lighting fast to come in close, drawing the knife at his hip. He had the advantage if he could stay in close, so Lancelot needed to beat him back with sword and shield, where superior reach would turn the advantage back around. Conversely, Lancelot caught Gawain’s wrist and pulled him forward, and observed with rapt attention many things at once: Gawain, brown curls wild, face flushed, smiling slightly, the torn up grass, the setting sun, the horror of the crowd’s eyes on them.

The air was rapidly cooling as the day slid toward dusk, the moment so poised and lovely and sharp as a knife, their breath mixed, lips too close for a moment too long now, closer slowly but inexorably--

With the panicked regret of realizing the show must go on, Gawain took a half step back, kicked out one of Lancelot’s legs and braced a hand on his shoulder, shoving him down to the ground and falling on top of him with a bent knee pinning his legs, one hand holding down his sword arm the other holding a blade to his throat. The crowd gave a massive cheer as Gawain blinked-- and swore under his breath.

“We just lost so much money,” he complained between heavy breaths. 

“Uhm. hng. Huh! Would you-- would you look at that,” Lancelot mumbled. “Huh.” 

“Huh,” Gawain agreed, not feeling particularly regretful when it came down to it. 

There was a victory feast. They slipped out less than five minutes in, stole one of the lord's horses, and had a lovely evening by the side of the road eating stolen food, drinking stolen wine, and entertaining themselves. Gawain resolved to try the scheme again at the next opportunity, with minor adjustments.

“I really think it has legs, I do,” he insisted. 

“I’m sure,” Lancelot agreed, and kissed him till he forgot about it.


	17. whoopsy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> priamus and gawain and lancelot have a fun adventure even though mostly they do not have fun at all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh this chapter does have some kind of gross corpse description which i think is fun and neat but other people may not

“Oh, gosh,” said Lancelot, who wasn’t supposed to be there. 

Somehow, there had been a minor mixup where Gawain set out early in the morning with both his own and Lancelot’s sword and, assuming that was something he’d want, paid a young woman at the first village they rode through to carry a message back to Camelot informing Lancelot his sword was with a reliable seeming blacksmith about six miles away. At some point the message had become garbled, as “hey, we have your sword, come get it,” became, “hey, we require both you and your sword posthaste.”

“We,” being Gawain and Priamus, who had found a neat looking ruin of something he thought worth poking around in. Neat was the word he used to describe it because he knew if he said “haunted looking” which it was, Gawain would absolutely refuse to go near it.

Priamus rolled his eyes slightly and nudged the corpse with his sword. It made no response, except to continue releasing unpleasant odours.

“Gross,” Gawain noted, leaning casually against the crumbling stone, unbothered and edging towards boredom. 

They had stumbled on the corpse just inside what had been a large structure. The roof was long gone, but walls rose as high as twelve feet in places, others no higher than their waists. There were various carvings and other things of interest on the outside, which had been the initial draw. 

But even to the untrained eye, the buildings predated the corpse significantly. That was interesting.

“Well, Lancelot?” Gawain asked, pulling himself onto the wall to perch there and look down upon them imperiously. “What’s the prognosis?”

Priamus gave the body another speculative poke. “Very poor, I’d expect. What, does our friend have hidden medicinal qualifications?”

“I’d say his talents lie in the exact opposite direction,” Gawain quipped as, attempting to ignore them, Lancelot knelt beside the body and withdrew a small, precise knife.

How incredible that the personal becomes the physical in death. How all identity is superseded by body-- this bloated purple tongue would have formed words, expressing the thoughts of the brain becoming sludge inside it’s container. There was a story for every faded white scar painted across peeling skin, sloughing off bones in a damp unbecoming. All this Lancelot pondered while he examined the body, turned it this was and that over the leaves stained brown underneath it. He may have voiced these thoughts were it only Gawain and himself, but today he said nothing.

There were no obvious wounds or signs of illness on the corpse so, with a muttered apology, he opened the body cavity, to muffled exclamations of disgust from the audience. The cold had slowed things somewhat, and red blood remained pooled in major arteries. But blowflies had still managed to find their way, and he gently selected one small, wriggling maggot from a colony in the throat, holding it up to the light to gauge it’s size.Still, decay made it difficult to clearly point to problems. 

Following a hunch, he cut free the heart and surrounding tubing, examining it carefully. “I think he died of something wrong with his heart. There’s some uh. What is the word?”

“Calcification?” said Gawain faintly.

“Er, yes, and-- buildup. And he’s been here around five days.”

They considered this information as Lancelot awkwardly dropped the heart back into the soupy cavity.

“It’s odd,” Lancelot said aloud after awhile, “Very odd, that no-- no animal larger than a maggot wants to eat him. He should have, larger worms and birds and foxes and, and such. You can hear birds in the trees, they’re, present but not--” he shrugged. “Interested.”

“Maybe some people simply have an unpleasant flavour,” Priamus suggested dryly. “I wouldn’t want to eat him. Would you?”

“Well-- I’m not a fox,” he looked a little unsure.

“You think this is appetizing?” Priamus gave it another poke, and the delicate bluing skin split bloodlessly under the repeated abuse. “Yum?”

“Maybe when he was fresh,” Gawain said, with enough of an air of serious consideration they both paused to stare worriedly for a moment. “What? I said maybe.”

“We should bury him,” suggested Lancelot, who was very good at burying bodies. 

Lying back on the wall like a cat sunning itself in a window, Gawain hummed. “Have fun.”

“Godspeed,” Priamus agreed, and Lancelot obligingly gathered up the body, while Gawain began asking if anyone had brought food.

You could dig pretty well with a sword, depending on the type, once you got the hang of it, and he had, through practice, got quite the hang of it. The morning was getting on into afternoon, the once frozen earth softening.

(“Why are you looking at me like that? You’re the one who brought up eating!”)

He buried the body in a shallow grave, piling a few stones over and making the sign of the cross, for propriety's sake. He was in the middle of trying to remember if he knew any prayers when Priamus called out.

“Hey I found a corpse! We need to get the corpse poking expert in here to poke it.”

Lancelot stood and walked over. There was a gap in the shaded back wall, and he had to slip through sideways to pass into the next open roofed stone chamber, where Priamus was standing, again, next to a corpse. 

“Lovely place you’ve brought me to,” Gawain commented from out of sight. Looking up, Lancelot saw him stood still on the wall, clearly pleased to be viewing things from above for once. “Charming ambience.”

It was really a pleasant location, if one ignored the corpses. It was a sunny fall day, and plants grew thick and green below their feet. A shifting dappled shadow was cast over the crumbling grey stone by the trees above like delicate lace, and the smell of wild flowers almost drowned out the rot.

Speaking of rot, it was more pronounced here. “This body is a bit older,” Lancelot decided with some confidence. “At least a week? Likely more.”

Further examination confirmed the later suspicion, the fat liquid and muscle desiccated, slipping off the skeleton poking through on the face, hands and ribs, already thin clothes clinging to sticky mess. Nearly everything maggots wanted to eat had been eaten, leaving bones, fats and arteries behind amidst the coagulated liquids that had oozed from various orifices following bloat.

“A couple weeks, with the damp and cold. I don’t see any obvious injury or illness but,” he prodded a rib gently, “harder to tell.” He glanced at the stained moss around the body. “This man was a woodcutter.”

“Huzzah!” Gawain cried sarcastically. “May he rest in peace.”

Priamus considered things a little more thoughtfully. “How do you know?”

He gestured a little hesitantly, as if this might be a trick question. “There's cut branches scattered uhm, around his body?”

Priamus blinked once. “Oh.”

“Ah, Christ,” Gawain interrupted them, peering off to the side of a wall into a next room only he could see. “You’re going to be digging all goddamn afternoon.”

Seeing no obvious doorway to slip through, Lancelot scrambled up a lower section of the wall to join Gawain. “Ah-- maybe one big pit,” he suggested practically.

They surveyed the five bodies. The oldest and farthest away was merely a few white bones sunken into the earth, the newest about contemporary with their unfortunate woodcutter. 

“That’s curious,” Noted Priamus, peering over the wall. “This must have been an architecturally incoherent building.”

“Hm,” said Lancelot, who barely brought himself to care about architecture when Gawain was talking about it, and could certainly lend no concern to Priamus now that there was mysterious violence happening.

“That leads into a basement I suppose, or a crypt.”

“Oh, lord,” said Gawain darkly, following his gaze to the dark stairway in a corner of the corpse strewn room. Despite his lack of enthusiasm, Gawain joined both of them in walking to the edge of what looked like a tunnel into hell. 

“Gosh,” Lancelot said again. “I sort of wish I had a sword.”

They both turned to him with accusatory looks. “You didn’t pick it up?”

“Well-- look-- no. Uh.” He fiddled with his sleeve. “I was sort of in a hurry. I have a knife, if that helps.”

“It’s great, it’s wonderful,” Gawain grimaced, having apparently realized this might be a ghost-adjacent experience. “I’m not going down there. Have fun if you want to.”

“Coward,” Priamus noted, amused. “Very well, shall we sally forth, Sir Lancelot, and leave our poor companion up here alone with the corpses and whatever else?”

“I know exactly what you’re doing,” Gawain accused him as the two took a first step down into the dark. “You’re not subtle.”

“I’m investigating a weird hole with my dear friend Lancelot,” Priamus said innocently as they descended another step, going slowly to allow their eyes to adjust.

“Hm,” said Lancelot, who didn’t really want to be involved in this affair and hoped something tried to eat them soon. Peering down, he could see nothing but more dark stairs, as above them a wind shook the trees above, sending leaves spiraling down to settle among their wilting compatriots. “Don’t see anything,” he offered, hoping Gawain would have mercy on him.

After a moment with no response, they descended a few more steps, seeing a dim landing a dozen steps down as shadowed forms resolved themselves into recognizable elements. 

“There’s another body, if I'm not mistaken,” Priamus reported. “Why's it always me to find these things?”

“Keen observation,” Lancelot said, quietly. “Ehm. Another skeleton. That’s--”

“Getting older,” Priamus smirked. “Down here might be safer than up there then.”

There was muffled cursing from above that they pretended not to hear. 

Deciding that if there was risk to life and limb he was damn well going to find it, Lancelot drew a long knife and descended silently. 

Arriving at the bottommost step, he observed more scattered bones. The scene was more dissimilar than not to the lair of some animal, a bear or lion or drake. Rather, the bones lay discarded like the streets around an old cemetery after heavy rain. 

From the back corner, he heard a low hissing noise, and scales scraping on stone, which was honestly a bit disappointing in terms of what could be in a cave like location. “It’s some sort of serpent,” he reported unworriedly.

“Deal with a lot of those, don’t you?” a pause at movement in the darkness. “That’s an odd silhouette.”

“It’s--” Whatever it was to be, Lancelot couldn’t say, as everything went black, and he sort of lost the end to his thought.

He wasn’t unconscious, which was odd, since that usually followed everything going black. He was, in fact, being yanked somewhat roughly upwards. 

“We are going back up the stairs!” Gawain announced, not taking his hand away from it’s position blocking Lancelot’s vision. 

He required no further explanation, and half stumbled up beside Priamus, both of them somewhat dragged that direction by Gawain, all three followed by hissing sounds.

They emerged into the sunlight and the field of corpses, and scrambled up and over the nearest wall into another grassy room open to the sky.

“Dare I ask?” Priamus said mildly. Despite his urgency, Gawain seemed to be in a much better mood now that they were all outside again.

“Calcatrix!” He said cheerfully. “Kills with a glance. And! Is not a ghost.”

“Huh,” The other two said at once. “And?”

“According to Pliny the Elder,” Gawain began, before the hissing sound was heard behind them. “Fuck!”

“Maybe Pliny afterwards,” Lancelot suggested kindly, as they set off again into the maze of small body strewn rooms, slipping through a doorway and over a wall before pausing again, collapsing in a tangle in the long grass, backs pressed to a low wall.

“Right,” Gawain agreed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s a snake bird toad thing. If it locks eyes with you, touches you or breathes on you, instant death. Very cool.”

“That doesn’t seem sporting,” Lancelot reflected unhappily. 

“Not remotely, but so’s life.”

“Why were the bodies getting older the deeper in?” Priamus asked, turning as if to glance behind him than whirling back around with a start.

Gawain weighed this, listening a moment for slithering, and hearing nothing. “I’d guess it gets bolder as it matures, with a wider range of area it considers its territory. They’re territorial.” 

“I don’t remember that in  _ Natural History,”  _ Priamus groused. 

Gawain frowned defensively. “I read a lot of beastearies as a kid.”

“Ah, those famously accurate bastions of knowledge.”

“Oh, yes, and Pliny is pure fact?” Gawain demanded, leaning across Lancelot (half in his lap at this point) to address one raised finger to Priamus’ smirking face on his other side.

Lnacelot didn’t have a great grasp on what they were talking about, except that everything was very sarcastic and pretentious. Which was normal, and he was used to it, but the hissing was back.

“The hissing is back.”

They fell instantly silent, listening. It was somewhat more distant, growing closer. They waited tensely, as it grew closer then more distant again, searching the labyrinthine ruins. “That thing is determined,” Priamus said lowly.

“Maybe you guys shouldn’t have penetrated it’s hole.”

“Please, don’t say that,” Lancelot urged, wincing. “Just-- did any of your books say anything about killing a-- a this thing?”

“Ah. yes!” Gawain said brightly. “Do either of you have a cock?”

There was an extended silence wherein Lancelot appeared to be struggling to breath. 

“I meant the bird,” Gawain corrected after a long and surely amusing moment. “The sound of it’s crow is purportedly fatal.”

“Why would a rooster crow be fatal? That doesn’t make sense.”

“Neither does a toad snake chicken with poison eyes,” Gawain pointed out, and Priamus shrugged in defeat. 

“Anything else?” Lancelot asked before another discussion could erupt, and still feeling a little faint.

“Well, do we have a mirror, or an ichneumon?”

“Uh, no,” Lancelot said, hunching down lower below the wall.

“Weasel?”

“Just you.”

“Hey!” Gawain protested, forgetting to whisper. “I--” His next words were muffled by Lancelot’s hand over his mouth, and after a moment of offended struggling, he remembered and fell into mortified silence. 

They all listened.

Nothing.

Tentatively, Lancelot drew his hand away.

“Hot,” Gawain announced, but quietly at least. 

“Lancelot brought his shield, right?” Priamus appeared to be deep in thought, which was good, because the other two were not thinking productively. 

Lancelot, still red in the face, considered this. “Yes, I-- I left it at the entrance. Leaned against the tree by the grave, why?” 

“Reflective, isn’t it?”

“Clever,” said Gawain approvingly. “Stole that from Ovid.”

“Maybe,” he admitted a little disappointedly.

“Alright,” Gawain said confidently. “Listen up, here’s the plan.”

The plan he presented, with unnecessary digressions and bombasticism, was to cut directly North through and over walls, with all possible speed, before circling widely around, polishing the shield (this step involved a digression of a sexual nature that was, admittedly, a stretch, joke wise) making loud noise and then holding the shield up with their eyes closed. If this failed, the plan was to run away and come back with an army.

It started off going pretty well-- they made it back to the grave and entrance without much trouble, and found the shield sufficiently reflective. 

“Great,” Gawain drew his sword and swung with full strength at the stone, causing a loud, echoing clatter. “That should do. Remember to hold your breath, shouldn’t be a problem unless this takes more than two hours--”

“What the fuck?” Priamus questioned, receiving no response.

“--and do not let it touch you,” he went on, as if never interrupted.

“I am wearing armour,” Lancelot said hopefully.

“Might corrode armour,” Gawain suggested, knocking once on the metal.

“That’s fine,” he sounded resigned. “I suppose I go through equipment faster than changes of clothes.”

“Eugh,” said Priamus dryly. “You should change your shirt more often.”

Lancelot blinked. “I-- it was a figure of speech.”

“Eh,” Gawain shrugged then swore. “Hissing’s back. Ready?”

“What do you mean eh?” he said distantly with a frown. “I mean--”

“Are you guys seriously doing this right now?”

“I’m not doing anything,” Gawain protested, “Christ, put your shield up,” he reached up to tug the shield into place, hand resting in a fist around the crest of it. “Pretend it’s a joust. Pretend it’s Tristan!” He chuckled darkly. “Well, maybe not Tristan.”

“What does  _ that  _ mean?”

“There’s something really wrong with you people.”

Gawain whirled to face Priamus, yanking the shield down with him. “You stay out of this! You’re the one that dragged us here, you don’t get an opinion on Tristan!”

“Why are we talking about Tristan?” Lancelot demanded, looking plaintively heavenwards. The hissing was very loud, accompanied by the sound of scales scraping through dried leaves.

“If this is my fault, then it’s your fault that the statue in Rome--”

“Do not tell that story!” Gawain squeaked in panic, reaching across Lancelot to silence Priamus, who dodged his hand and tripped him, sending them both crashing to the ground, on top of the grave, dragging Lancelot down, shield an all, on top of them, the hissing rising above a cacophony of metal against stone and form.

There was a panicked moment of eyes tightly shut and breathless panic, before--

“Oh, hey Lancelot!”

“Sebile?!” He wasn’t unwise enough to open his eyes, but felt his brow knot in confusion. Sebile was a possibly evil sorceress and sometimes Lancelot-kidnapper, but she was mostly very nice about it. Given the choice, while she was assuredly more dangerous than a poison snake thing, Lancelot would probably choose her company over it.

“You guys have a cockatrice?” She asked, her footsteps crunching over the leaves. “Oh my god. It’s so cute. Don’t open your eyes but oh my god. Hi baby!”

“It’s not mine?” 

“Oh hell yeah. Can I have it?”

“Who--?”

“Shush. It’s, A-- again, not mine.”

There was a scuffle, and confused hissing, before she announced the coast was clear. Awkwardly Lancelot struggled to sitting, to see Sebile with a hissing, struggling sack slung effortlessly over her shoulder.

“You sure you don’t want this? It’s really cute,” she said, poking the writhing fabric with a friendly and slightly manic grin.

“I don’t want it,” he reassured her. “Please take it away.”

She shrugged. “Alright. Hey, by the next time I kidnap you I’ll have it housetrained.”

“Oh, goody.”

“Wait, Sebile?” Asked Gawain, catching up on the conversation and looking at the woman in front of them with a small degree of wonder. “Uhm. Sangremore told me about you, I--”

“He didn’t tell me about you at all,” she told him, with effusive insistence.

“O--oh-- Uh--”

“Well,” she holstered the sack, and pointed at Lancelot, “see you around, stay hydrated,” at Gawain, “Don’t know don’t care,” and Priamus, “You into girls? Call me.”

Then she strode off into the woods.

“Wow,” said Gawain faintly. “Let’s never do this again.”

  
  



	18. wuh oh yvain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh oh spaghettios! what to do when ur cousin is maybe evil or gay or something??

Gawain was incomprehensible. But everyone knew that already, and it wasn’t worth worrying or wondering about. By the third or fourth time he appeared to save the day and or ruin everything, the third or fourth time he went off to die in a beheading game and came back, the eighth or ninth time he seduced one’s friend, acquaintance, lover or relative-- one should have learned to let it go. 

Yvain was trying his best to do that, he really was. 

He had ridden out to Camelot to meet with Arthur, which meant meet with Guinevere, regarding political matters. There had been an incident on the road, as there so often was, and so, now horseless, he was walking down a sort of gulch which ran parallel to the road, but was shaded from the warmth of the sun that morning, being tucked a level below the hazily waving grass which peeked over the sides above him to the fringe the blue ribbon of sky. Provided nothing else went wrong, he was a few days of walking away from Camelot.

The almost musical twang of a bowstring sang out distantly. No screaming followed, or anything else, except another note a few moments later. So, curious, he kept walking down the shadowed streambed, keeping footsteps soft. And quiet. It was hard to tell only from sound, but it seemed few of the shots were hitting any mark. 

_ It’s a balance,  _ Gawain had said once, upon being asked at some feast how he managed, inevitably, to stumble into magical occurrence and, just as unfailingly, emerge whole;  _ between being curious and unquestioning.  _ Engage with the world in the manner it presents itself. Easy for him to say, maybe, when the world seemed to warp to fit his preferences.

Still, he made a point in saying adventure often required a degree of inquisitiveness. Yvain dug around in a pocket for the plain silver ring he’d be loaned once again for this journey. Slipping it on and vanishing predictably, he scrambled up the side of the ditch to peer at the unseen archer. 

It took a second to click, before crashing suddenly on him like a wave which forced a gasp of air out of his lungs as his suddenly clumsy hands slipped on the loose stone, nearly sending him to sprawl loudly and treacherously in the inch of water a good six paces below.

Without any sort of hurry, Gawain took another shot. An arrow hissed in the air, skittering shy of the tall oak tree which stood like a general in front of the infantry corps treeline, demarcating a little coppiced wood. Shy a few paces of the target, who--  _ oh, no,  _ Yvain thought with what might, years ago, have been horror but was now at best vague disappointment. 

There was a man tied to the oak tree. He appeared to be alive, twitching weakly against the bonds that held him when he heard the arrow shudder into the bracken somewhere behind him. His clothes were fine, if somewhat in a poor state, and he looked to be somewhere around three decades of age, with the build of someone who could fight, and who’d always had enough to eat. 

Gawain didn’t seem very disappointed to have missed the shot. Unhurriedly, he took another arrow from a disordered selection laying in the grass at his feet, took aim, fired, and missed. 

“I thought you were going to kill him?”

Again, Yvain came close to falling, for he’d been so wrapped up in his cousins shooting he’d missed an approaching rider. In his defense, Lancelot was very quiet sometimes. 

Lancelot was also incomprehensible, but in a different way. One which may very well be worth both worrying and wondering about, if Gawain hadn’t made so implicitly clear this particular man and his dark secrets were to be left well enough alone. The blood on him now might have been testament to some one’s failure to do so.

“I’m going to,” Gawain protested mildly. “Eventually, I’ll hit him. Ten minutes ago I nicked his arm.”

Lancelot peered skeptically across the field. “I don’t think you did.”

At the height, the very peak of incomprehensibility, was however exactly Gawain and Lancelot worked as a collective. Certainly, Gawain acted very much like they were friends, which Lancelot seemed to grudgingly tolerate more than anything. Of course, Lancelot didn’t seem to be happy about anything, especially other people, so it was hard to tell. And, equally of course, Gawain was a manipulative liar. It wasn’t his fault, really, anyone who knew him growing up would admit that, and Yvain loved his cousin anyway.

Still, it was true that many had been worse than embarrassed, upon realizing the error in assuming that because Gawain smiled at them, sung their praises to the court, sent them gifts and told them jokes, he was on their side. 

“I’m giving him time to, you know, recount his sins. Christian absolution,” Gawain explained with evident humour.

“How very good of Sir Gawain the Mild,” Lancelot responded, affecting a recognizable impression of Bishop Baldwin. Blinking at surprise at this uncharacteristic lighthearted good humour, Yvain searched the sliver of Lancelot’s face that was visible to him, looking for-- horror? He didn’t know. Whatever he looked for he didn’t find it. Not even the shadowed sort of unobtrusive tension Lancelot carried always in the flow of his features and the slant of his shoulders.

The next shot went so wide, Gawain shaking with amusement at this comment, that it plunged into the opposite bank of the ditch, dislodging a poor dandelion that had been clinging there. 

Lancelot sat on the grass to wait and, with an offended noise, Gawain kicked him lightly in overacted peevishness. “Dont settle in, I’ll have this done in a moment! Get up!”

Placatingly, Lancelot rose, an uncommon smile on his face. That moment, Yvain almost laughed too, at the way Gawain’s grin breaking through an attempt at wounded pride echoed countless innocent arguments they’d had as children, how for all he was perfect his cousin never learned to shoot with any decency. It was odd how quickly one forgot, that Gawain was aiming for a man’s heart.

But awareness of that returned like ice water, like the time when they were eleven that Gawain had dared him to drink the frigid sea water, and it made him as freezing cold as it did make him violently ill.

“You’re going to get bored of this momentarily, if you aren’t already,” Lancelot observed without judgement.

The predicted stubborn resistance was unforthcoming. “Oh, awfully. I’m bored already. God damn it.”

He had missed again. The man had stopped jolting fearfully at every shot, and hung with weak hopelessness.

“I’m not going to help you look for all those arrows.”

“Yeah, you will.”

Lancelot shrugged. “Probably.”

Two more failed shots. Yvain waited, hoping Lancelot might take pity on one of them and push the matter. But he was as patient as a stone. Finally, with a barking laugh, Gawain threw up his hands and passed Lancelot the bow.

“He’s stopped flinching anyway. It’s not fun anymore.”

Yvain watched, holding his breath, as aim was taken, trying not to let Gawain’s comment settle in the back of his mind. Of course Yvain had killed people before. It was a part of the job, that combat might sometimes come down to the death, and there was no shame in killing or being killed that way, or in war, for he had killed many in Rome on the battlefield, and not found the whole thing as distasteful as he maybe should have. 

But this was different, so different-- Lancelot held one breathe, released, Gawain watched with bright eyed interest as the man gave a final start, the red bloom on his chest gurgling from his mouth to spill down his neck and stain the wood-- the silence as they watched, all three of them, was different.

And it was over. 

“We might go search for your arrows now,” Lancelot suggested suddenly into the silence, oddly breathy.

“Oh, might we?” Gawain asked wryly. There was a tone of joking, though what that joke might be was unclear to say the least. “Ah, I see now that-- ow!”

Intent on his obfuscatory teasing, Gawain reacted too slowly to catch his bow being thrown back to him. The pair set off trading laughing apologies, barely sparing a glance to the body as they passed it. 

Yvain climbed up over the bank as they disappeared into the woods. Walking over to the place they’d been standing, he paused to look out, saw the same view of the man that his killer had. He thought about crossing the field, searching the man. If this were a play, he’d wear some identifying signet ring, carry an incriminating letter, something that proved him deserving of this fate. But very likely he would not. 

Very likely not, Yvain thought again, climbed back down the flaking shale and earth and kept on towards Camelot, leaving the ring on till the sun began to grow low in the sky and the air turned cold.


End file.
